Reversal
by scrub456
Summary: Sherlock is perched on the ledge. Lazarus is ready. Something goes horribly wrong. The wrong man ends up taking the fall. Nothing is as it seems. *A Reichenbach Conspiracy*
1. PROLOGUE: Overture

**_**Author's Note**_**

 _The idea for this "prologue" obviously came after I had already started the story. I apologize for any confusion this may cause to anyone already following the story, but I feel it clarifies a little the direction we are headed. I also had to tweak the first few paragraphs of "Lazarus" (now chapter two) with the addition of this prologue. Those edits will have no effect of the outcome of that chapter. The tone is a bit different for this chapter, and that is intentional._

* * *

Mycroft Holmes is nothing if he is not in control, and he has been in control of this situation since the moment the invalided military man who is also a physician (Sherlock got it wrong when he called him an army doctor; Mycroft's seen the service records. But Captain Watson hadn't corrected him, and isn't that just fascinating?) walked into Saint Bartholomew's pathology lab.

When the forgettable middle aged woman in the drab jumper and sensible loafers arrived at 221 Baker Street, representing The Heritage of London Trust, and offering a substantial monthly stipend in exchange for continuing to maintain and preserve the rooms (though the question of their vitality in understanding the recorded history of the city was never addressed), it was Mycroft exercising his control. Though the elderly landlady adores his brother, there is only so far she can discount the rent without the added support.

And then there is Sherlock himself. It will only be a matter of time before little brother will grow bored with his new acquisition. He'll forget about him, leave him, or cast him off. Mycroft never could control Sherlock's irrational, erratic behavior, but he recognizes the patterns. When Sherlock left Doctor Watson alone at the crime scene, Mycroft was waiting.

A little manipulation - the ringing phones and cameras always work, especially on those fighting daily battles with paranoia and distrust. He had so hoped the doctor would be different. He has yet to be disappointed.

And now the man is standing, standing, (ah, a strategist, then) mere paces away from Mycroft. He should be terrified, they're always terrified. But there is no terror.

Irritation. This meeting is an inconvenience, though Mycroft is absolutely aware Doctor Watson has no social calendar to speak of.

Distrust. Anyone who says they trust Mycroft Holmes completely is not to be trusted, by Mycroft's own admission. The doctor is demonstrating remarkable judgment in not trusting him at the moment.

Anger. Doctor Watson is not a man who often allows himself to be put into situations where he has no control at all. He feels he has lost his grip on this situation now that Mycroft has started revealing his secrets. What he doesn't seem to realize is that by not cowering and bowing to Mycroft's will, Doctor Watson has rather unassumingly, and quite disarmingly, stolen more than a little bit of the control of this meeting away from the most dangerous man he will ever meet.

Mycroft realizes the disparity as he examines Doctor Watson's left hand. He must not let his disquiet be seen. He turns his back to the doctor, takes a few steps, and assumes his most omniscient tone (the tone that has stopped in their tracks countless men in ranks more auspicious than Captain Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, could ever dream of achieving).

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He's recovered himself now, and ready to go in for the kill. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" Doctor Watson eyes him warily, and ignores the condescending speech. Once again this common man with the stellar record and the slightly above average intellect up ends Mycroft's attack approach.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

There. A chink the armor. The former military man flinches as if he's standing in front of an actual firing squad. He recovers himself admirably, but not before Mycroft notices the way his eyes fix not on him, but some distant point. There's a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Mycroft smirks, he's won this round.

He's not prepared for the return fire. He should be. It's one of three logical responses. It's not the one he expected though, and that makes the man before him dangerous. Intriguing.

"Who the hell are you? How do you know that?" The doctor rages. By this point, everyone Mycroft's ever run this protocol on has given up the fight. Mycroft Holmes does not retreat.

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." Mycroft feels a rush of adrenaline as Doctor Watson looks down clenching his fist, and then back up to stare back into the void.

Oh yes. He hasn't gotten what he originally wanted, an informant, no. But there is potential for so much more. Captain John H. Watson could prove to be very useful indeed. He is now an asset to be obtained. And Mycroft is never denied. It's time. The final nail. He won't refuse, Mycroft can see the fire in his eyes. There is palpable tension.

Mycroft, eyes piercing and frigid, demand attention. "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." The implication clear. Sherlock's little puzzles won't be enough for long. What battlefield do you want, they're all yours for the choosing. He leans in close. It's almost intimate, if he weren't radiating intimidation. He lowers his voice. These words are for Doctor Watson only. An invitation. "Welcome back."

He turns and walks away. Biding his time, ensuring his steps reverberate. Any moment now. The doctor will comply.

Another text message. Mycroft knows it's Sherlock. He doesn't need to see the tech report. It's been months since any communications have passed through the device in Doctor Watson's pocket.

If Mycroft doesn't salvage the moment, his hard work will have been in vain. He pauses and twirls his umbrella. It all appears very casual, almost absurd.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft wills him to respond, to say a word. Take a single step. They both stand in silence a moment, with Mycroft's back turned to the doctor.

A single step echoes. And then another. Mycroft opens his mouth to congratulate the doctor on making a wise choice. His future will be bright. It's not until the third step lands that Mycroft understands the doctor is retreating.

Back to the car. Back to the trenches of Baker Street. Back to Sherlock.

Squaring his shoulders, Mycroft resumes his own retreat. He only pauses when the car is out of sight. Turning back he faces the empty chair sat in the middle of the abandoned structure. Undignified as it may be, Mycroft is outraged. He considers calling back the car and taking the doctor by force to Home Base. He'd grow to appreciate the place he could have there.

But Mycroft won't do it. He likes to at least pretend he has given his marks a choice in the matter. Doctor Watson won't be able to hold out for long. Mycroft is confident in his own ability to persuade.

He realizes, though, that he's taken his mobile into his hand and is furious with himself for the momentary weakness. Slamming the mobile down to the concrete floor with all his might, Mycroft relishes the echoes of destruction. Is giddy with it as he holds his umbrella near the middle and uses the curved handle as a mallet. Soon the indestructible handle is cracked and ruined.

A single deep breath and Mycroft looks up. His security detail steps out from the shadows; they are very prudent in diverting their gazes. Dropping the umbrella on top of the smashed mobile, Mycroft smooths the front of his suit, presses his handkerchief to his brow and his neck, and strides to his waiting car.


	2. Lazarus

Mycroft Holmes did not care for John Watson. At least not as one might be expected to care about the only friend of one's only brother.

The doctor was a decent enough bloke, though Mycroft made it a habit to never associate with "blokes." He knew what it was Sherlock saw in this deceptively unassuming man, Mycroft had seen it upon his first encounter as well. But the significance of the friendship eluded Mycroft at every attempt to understand. Most assuredly the good doctor had aided in protecting the younger Holmes brother on several occasions, and his military service was admirable. Impressive, really. Mycroft, in his position, was aware of multiple commendations that Captain Watson had, for the sake of his own modesty, not even revealed to Sherlock. Bravery aside, John Watson was not the cleverest of men (though based on several evaluations the doctor never knew he'd been subjected to, one might consider his actual intelligence above average), nor the shrewdest (how else could one explain the misguided loyalty in turning down Mycroft's offer of compensation in exchange for details of Sherlock's daily habits?).

Doctor John H. Watson was absolutely unexceptional, at least in matters deemed worthy by Mycroft Holmes. He'd had his opportunity to become exceptional, a covert offer extended by "the British Government," and he'd eschewed it in favor of tidying up after Sherlock and engaging in deadly parlor games with James Moriarty.

A distraction. That was now the distinction thrust upon John Watson by the "minor" government official. And as such, Sherlock had lost his edge. Mycroft had made his assertion clear, vocalizing on multiple occasions, that had John never crossed Sherlock's path, Moriarty and his network would have been neatly and precisely dismantled and disposed of months ago. If not for the distraction of this emotional bond, the elder Holmes brother would not have been forced into a devil's arrangement with the consulting criminal, and the world's only consulting detective would not have been, at that very moment, standing on the ledge of the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Alas, as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, no thanks to John Watson, there was no other way.

* * *

The scene was dismal and grey. Two men had stepped onto the roof of St. Bart's alive; neither would be leaving the way he came. Overhead the clouds grew heavy with rain, blocking out any hope of warmth from the sun. "Just as well," Sherlock thought to himself. "Rubbish day for a rubbish errand." Leaning slightly forward he peered down the side of the building. A brisk breeze caused him to shiver as the hem of his coat fluttered around his legs. He couldn't postpone his task any longer; conditions were still in his favor. Glancing at the sky once more, he steeled his nerves and cleared his throat.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock hadn't counted on John's persistence. Every single variable had been considered and planned for. Every variable, that is, but this infuriating stubbornness. How could Sherlock have been so foolish as to think John would willingly stand by? Mycroft had severely miscalculated John's eagerness to blindly obey Sherlock's wishes. But if "Lazarus" was going to succeed, in all its convoluted glory, everything hinged on John Watson standing in a very specific, very carefully planned, spot on the street below.

Sherlock glanced behind him. James Moriarty's lifeless body lay there, the pool of blood, littered with skull fragments and brain matter, slowly spreading and congealing. This was the preferred outcome. This was the way it had to be. Moriarty had ended himself, Sherlock would jump, and with Mycroft's help, the elaborate plan would unfold, affording Sherlock the freedom to dismantle the consulting criminal's international network without interference. He would clear his name, all while saving the lives of Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and one Doctor John H. Watson.

John.

The doctor looked so small and alone standing on the street below. Sherlock returned his focus to the pleading voice on the other end of the line. This deceit he hated more than he had ever hated anything. The very thought of lying to this man who trusted him so completely tore at Sherlock's... What? His conscience? Did he even have a conscience? Before he had met John, he would have denied such nonsensical accusations. But now, he was different. He was Sherlock Holmes, friend of John Watson.

As he scanned the scene below him, a man with a bicycle came into view. It was time.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and braced himself for the task ahead. He planned his words carefully, and opened his mouth to tell his friend goodbye. The words had not even crossed his lips when the sound of an explosion tore through air, the repercussions of which caused the building to shudder below him, knocking Sherlock backward off the ledge.

Terror surged through every fiber of Sherlock's being. Had Moriarty's assassin grown tired of waiting? Had he figured out the scheme? Before he could stop himself, he bellowed John's name from the very depth of his lungs. He flew to the rooftop's edge and frantically searched the chaotic scene below him. The area surrounding the hospital was suddenly, unceremoniously, swarming with people. No one seemed to know what was happening, and all of Mycroft's men were scattered in disarray. "Where did all those people come from?" Sherlock pondered out loud.

Wait, no. John. Where was he?

"Focus, Sherlock. _FOCUS_." Sherlock's thoughts grew increasingly frenzied as he scanned the mob below, several moments passed, and an emotion Sherlock was not entirely accustomed to threatened to spill over. Finally he spotted him; the other man, the focus of his frantic search, lying motionless on the pavement. Sherlock dropped to his knees, and the very ability to breathe was ripped from his lungs. In shock Sherlock knelt there. How much time passed mattered very little. Minutes? Hours? Seconds? Ever so faintly Sherlock became aware of a familiar voice. The voice was near, but muffled. He forced his unfocused gaze away from the street below. Still clutched in his right hand was his mobile, and the line remained connected with John's phone on the other end. He realized a little too slowly the voice was coming from the phone.

John's voice.

"J... J-john..." Sherlock stammered.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me? There was an explosion. Did you see where it came from? I can't see anything from down here!"

Lest his emotions betray him, Sherlock rose swiftly, and moved to step back onto the ledge, this time to survey the horizon. As he stepped up, another explosion rocked the hospital below him, again throwing him away from the ledge. "John, the explosions are inside the hospital!"

"I can see the smoke now. I'm coming in there!"

"John, don't be an idiot! Stay where you are, I'm coming down."

"Sherlock, you know as well as I do that you're going to look for the source of the explosions before the fire services arrive and destroy the evidence. I'm coming in there so you don't get yourself killed! Besides..." John's sentence was cut short as the man on the bicycle clipped him, causing John to stumble back and his mobile to skitter across the ground. Good Lord, under the circumstances, Mycroft certainly wouldn't expect Sherlock to go ahead with "Lazarus" would he? Sherlock peered back down at John, and he saw his friend hesitate, throw a glance to his rooftop position, and then charge headlong towards the building.

"Stubborn fool," Sherlock muttered as he made for the stairwell. Upon opening the door, Sherlock was knocked back a step by a plume of acrid smoke. The fire was spreading quickly. John's astute deduction had pinned his intention exactly, he had indeed planned to investigate the source of the explosion. However, he decided for the sake of his own safety, as well as John's, he needed to exit the building immediately. Surely John would be on his way up the main stairwell now, so that was where Sherlock headed. The smoke was growing heavy, and the two men nearly collided in their hurried state.

"Sherlock! Have you heard from Molly? I didn't see her below. Should we help her?" John panted as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm in order stabilize himself.

Molly. Sherlock had nearly forgotten. Her role in "Lazarus" was key, and he was certain she would never leave her post until she had fulfilled her duty, so loyal was she. But it would be catastrophic for John to see what Molly was preparing to do. John could never know. Sherlock's mind raced as he considered all options.

"Help! Help, medic? We need a medic over here!" A nurse emerged from the smoky hallway, she was covered in ash and a seeping gash crossed her forehead.

"Are either of you medics? We have patients over here we can't get out." Sherlock and John looked to each other, and John nodded, each knowing what needed to be done.

"I'm a doctor. Sherlock, you get Molly, I'll assist here, and we meet by the medic station outside, okay?"

"Agreed... And John, do hurry." Sherlock wasn't sure John had even heard his attempt at sentiment, as he had followed after the nurse into the murky corridor, but a glance and a nod thrown over his shoulder assured Sherlock that he had.

Moments later Sherlock burst into the room where, just as he had assumed, Molly was waiting. She was leaning out the window, gasping for fresh air, but unwilling to abandon her post.

"Moriarty made a grave error."

"Pardon?" Molly sputtered in surprise at the realization of Sherlock standing an arm's length from her.

"'Jim from IT' underestimated your value. He used you unfairly, and assumed that you were meaningless to me. Failing to be threatened by you was his undoing, Molly Hooper." Molly stumbled back under the weight of the compliment. Never had anyone said such genuinely kind words to her, and here the most unfeeling man in the world had spoken them.

"I... I..." Molly stammered. Sherlock rushed to stabilize her, mistaking her surprise at his words for being overcome by smoke inhalation.

"Quite right. We need to evacuate immediately." Sherlock tore his scarf in half and helped Molly fashion a makeshift mask with one of the pieces. As he tied the other across his own face, he peered into the corridor. Heavy smoke. No flames, yet. Door still cool to the touch. "We're going to the stairwell and heading for the main entrance. We're to meet John at the medic station outside." Before Molly had time to respond, Sherlock had clasped her hand tightly in his and pushed through the door. "Do not let go of my hand, no matter what!"

The smoke was so thick it took longer to find the exit than Sherlock would have liked, but soon he and Molly were outside, gulping breaths of fresh air. A light rain had begun to fall, and the cool moisture only enhanced the feeling of being refreshed. The crowd around the hospital had grown immensely. Fire crews were just suiting up in preparation of entering the building with hoses and axes. Explosives specialists were strategizing, and Sherlock caught sight of DI Lestrade orchestrating a team of officers to surround the perimeter, "No one else gets in here! And no one leaves! And for God's sake, do not enter the building! Help the civilians stay out of the way, and direct the medics to those who need help. Now, go! GO!" Sherlock had honestly never been so relieved to see the detective.

Sherlock and Molly circled the medic station. Three times, as a matter of fact. Each time more deliberate than the last. Still, there was no sign of John anywhere. "Where is he?" Sherlock growled in exasperation. Didn't John realize his mental capacities were certainly better spent in the center of the action, pinpointing the cause of the explosions, rather than waiting idly on the periphery for the doctor to finish his dawdling? He wondered what poor pathetic soul had convinced the weak willed John in to coddling them, with the obvious intention of wasting Sherlock's time.

"Why not try calling him?" Molly asked sheepishly. Sherlock blinked and turned his head away from her in order to hide the fact that the thought had not occurred to him. He dialed John's mobile and let it ring.

"Voice mail." Sherlock dialed again as he rolled his eyes in impatience. He heard a familiar tune somewhere out beyond the medic station. John's ringtone. Sherlock dialed the number again, and followed the sound, with Molly in tow. They shoved their way through the crowd until Sherlock was certain that they had to be right on top of John. With great dismay, Sherlock noticed the source of the ringing. It was undeniably John's phone, the phone that had been a gift from his sister. It lay there on the pavement, scuffed and face cracked, as a result of the run in with the overzealous bicyclist.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock bellowed. He thrust John's mobile into his coat pocket and took off at a sprint to the last place he had seen the DI. Molly struggled to keep up.

"Detective! Detective Inspector Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled. The detective was deep in conversation with a small group of explosives specialists. To the casual observer it would have appeared he had not heard Sherlock's calls, though Sherlock suspected he was being ignored. "Greg!" Lestrade froze, and turned his gaze to Sherlock.

"Wh... Excuse me? Did you just call me Greg?"

"It is your name, is it not?" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. "I don't have time for this! John. Have you seen John?"

"He hasn't come back out?" Lestrade asked, making no attempt to mask the concern in his voice.

" _Back_ out?" Sherlock demanded. "You mean to tell me you saw him exit this inferno, and then you let him go back inside?"

"Sherlock, he's been in and out a few times. He was carrying patients to safety before the rescuers even arrived. I tried to stop him, even threatened to arrest him, but you know John better than anyone. There was no stopping him. He said he knew of one more patient," Lestrade paused to check his watch and glance at the hospital entrance, "that was several minutes ago."

Sherlock glared into the eyes of the detective, and for the first time in his life, the ability to formulate a sentence escaped him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock..." Molly's small voice, in an uncharacteristically shrill octave broke through the rage clouding Sherlock's senses.

" _What?_ " He snapped, never breaking his gaze.

"Sherlock, you're hurting me," Molly squeaked. In exasperation he looked down and realized that he had never let go of Molly's hand. As he released his grasp, he looked towards the building, and back to Lestrade and Molly.

"I'm going in there." Sherlock shrugged off his great coat and handed it to Molly as he pulled the makeshift mask back over his face.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that," Lestrade stepped directly into Sherlock's path. The two men stood chest to chest, Sherlock's icy glare surprisingly ineffective in staring down Lestrade's determined gaze.

"I'd like to see you stop me," Sherlock hissed, his tone made all the more intimidating through the mask. Lestrade had taken his handcuffs into one hand, and had the other clinched into a fist.

"Wait! Both of you! Someone's coming out now!" Molly shouted. Sherlock shoved past the DI and ran toward the hospital entrance, stopping short as the smoke cleared just enough for him to realize this was not his friend, but a fireman. The firefighter was, however carrying someone.

"John? John!" Sherlock picked his way to the firefighter in time to see him rest his burden on a medic's gurney. He retched as he realized the pathetic bundle of a person was a young girl wrapped in John's jacket. "Excuse me; did you see the man who was wearing this coat inside the building?"

The fireman went stiff, and Sherlock found his stoic stance and ash smeared face impossible to read. "Tell me! NOW. Did you see him?"

The rigid rescue worker softened, and his voice broke as he spoke, "I did see him. He was carrying this girl to safety. He had just handed her over to me when the ceiling above him collapsed. My crew is working to free him, but he made me swear to bring her to safety."

"John." Sherlock locked eyes with Lestrade and the detective nodded, as they silently consented to enter the inferno together to aid in the rescue.

"Excuse me. Sir?" the little girl choked on her words. "Are you... are you Sher-sher... lock? The other man said to give these to someone named Sherlock." The little girl held out a well-worn gold watch that Sherlock had seldom seen John actually wear, and John's wallet, which he fumbled and promptly dropped as she finished her message. "He said to give you those things and to say, um, 'Vatican cameos.' Is that right? He said you would know. He was very brave. I was crying. He said he would come back for me, and he did."

Molly and Lestrade stared, stunned, as the robot of a man seemed to crack right in front of them. Sherlock clutched his chest. He had always thought the emotional expression of having one's heart ripped out was absolutely the most ridiculous notion he had ever heard of, yet this small child had succeeded in doing just that with her cryptic message.

"Greg, we... we have to go. Right now. We have to go. I have to go." Sherlock's pleas were whispered and broken. He lurched unsteadily towards the entrance, as Lestrade steadied him.

"Okay, yes, we're going in now. But you have to pull yourself together. For John. Hold it together," Lestrade commanded. Sherlock looked at him, grateful, and taking a breath, the men rushed towards the fully engulfed entrance together. As they neared the shattered glass doors, a team of firemen and explosives specialist burst through the smoke.

"Everyone back! GET BACK NOW! There's another device, and the fire is too close. We couldn't prevent it; it's going to blow any second now!" Sherlock and Lestrade charged forward, only to be thrown backward by the sheer force of the explosion. Sherlock momentarily lost contact with consciousness, but was startled back by the ominous rumbling and groaning of the building.

"She's going down!" someone yelled, and Sherlock felt himself being dragged away from the crumbling building. He tried to fight himself free, but the more he struggled, the more arms wrapped around him. He looked to his right, and Lestrade was unsuccessfully attempting to break the restraint of a crowd of officers as well. An unearthly moan preceded the collapse of the building. Debris and dust bombarded the men as the force of the collapse caused a great tidal wave of destruction to course over the crowd. The destruction was complete; St Bart's was no more.

Sherlock stopped fighting. He stumbled backwards and collapsed into the arms of the men who had mere seconds before been restraining him. His ears were ringing from the blast, but he could hear Lestrade cursing and barking commands next to him. Molly was somewhere repeating his name.

For a brief moment Sherlock forgot himself, where he was, why he was there. All he could do was gaze at the rising smoke as the flames continued to consume the rubble heap that had been a hospital. It looked like something from a war zone. War zone. Sherlock had been to war zones. In a fog, he remembered something about war. There was something he was supposed to know about a war. No not a war, but what then? A soldier? Yes, a soldier. The mind palace was inaccessible. What was he supposed to remember? A soldier. It didn't make any sense. Wasn't he in London? This wasn't a war zone. There were officers, but no soldiers. No soldiers anywhere.

He was aware of someone wrapping something around his shoulders. Molly. He recognized Molly, despite the grime that coated her from head to toe. The rain had effectively served as glue for the dust that had erupted from the building's collapse, leaving everything and everyone now caked in the awful remnants of destruction in its wake.

Molly had draped his coat over his shoulders, and knelt beside him. She was talking, but he couldn't make sense of the words. He reached for the handkerchief in his coat pocket. Molly would want to wipe her face, he thought, unaware that he too was covered in the paste-like muck. His fingertips grazed something solid in the pocket. He pulled out the object, and turned it over in his hands.

A mobile phone.

John's phone. John. The soldier.

Vatican cameos.

Then, as if he'd been slapped across the face, Sherlock remembered. John was still in there. He tried to stand, but the earth fell out from beneath him. For the second time that day, Lestrade reached out to support the broken man as he collapsed back to his knees. Lestrade was saying words. Molly was crying. What was Lestrade saying? _Focus. FOCUS._

"...the fire is still burning too hot for rescuers to start digging. Crews are working to extinguish the fire. They don't think there are any more explosives, but they can't be sure just yet. But... uhm..."

" _What._ What is it?" Sherlock demanded.

"That last explosion. The point of origin was somewhere down that corridor where the crew was working to free John. None of those men have been seen, and we're getting reports that the monitors the firemen were wearing are tracking no movement in that area. Sherlock, they're saying there's no way anyone could have survived." Lestrade hung his head in an effort to avoid eye contact with Sherlock.

"I… I don't understand… Wh-what does that…" Sherlock turned John's mobile over and over in his hands. He had heard what Lestrade said, but the words didn't make sense.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispered, as his voice broke. What he could not glean from the DI's words, Sherlock put together from his tone, and the fact that tears ran unchecked from his eyes, leaving muddy tracks down Lestrade's face.

No survivors.

It couldn't be true. It wasn't true. This was John. Dr. John Watson. Captain John Watson. He was strong, and brave. And smart. Smarter than most. No, John couldn't be dead. He must have escaped by another route. He was probably frantically searching for Sherlock on the other side of the hospital. Sherlock's heart began to race. Of course, how could he be such an idiot?

Rather more unsteady than he would have liked, Sherlock stood to his feet, surveyed the scene before him, and turned away from Molly and Lestrade.

"Where are you going?" Molly sniffed, as Lestrade lifted her off the ground.

"I've been an idiot. Surely John must have left the building by another exit. He's probably around back. I'm sure he's worried himself sick about me."

"Sherlock," Molly was crying harder now. "Sherlock, the fireman _saw_ John trapped in the hallway." She pulled on his arm in an effort to turn him back.

"People make mistakes," Sherlock hissed. "Kindly release me." Unable to bear any more of Molly's emotional nonsense, he took off at a sprint around the side of the building. Sherlock realized he was still gripping John's mobile. He shoved the phone into his pocket, and pulling out his own, dialed Mycroft.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Mycroft demanded.

"As if you don't know. I need you. Now."

"Little brother, I assure you your request is most impossible. With the events of the day, there is no way I can abandon my post now. Is it safe now to assume you have disposed of Moriarty?"

"You could say that..." Sherlock paused, he had reached the back of the hospital, and scanned the crush of people milling about. "Mycroft, I need you. John is missing." Mycroft was silent, but Sherlock could hear chaos behind him. Certainly the government buildings would be in an uproar. Was that sirens he heard? Were there more bombs?

Mycroft broke the silence. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"He ran into the hospital... he was trying to save a little girl..."

"The fool. Don't I always say, what good does it do to care? If he was so stupid as to..." Sherlock hung up the phone, stung by the venom in the elder Holmes' voice. He would deal with Mycroft later.

He quickly dialed Mrs. Hudson's number. Relief coursed through his chest when the dear woman answered the phone. In all that had happened, he had nearly forgotten that her life had been at risk not so long ago. Mentally shoving aside the unkind words he and John had for each other mere hours ago when John presumed the woman had been harmed, Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began. He was promptly interrupted.

"Oh, Sherlock, did you hear about St. Bart's? Isn't it just awful? Who would do such thing? I'm sure you'll be asked to take a look. You'll figure it all out, won't you dear? Of course you will!"

Rolling his eyes in frustration, and willing himself to maintain an even tone with the woman, Sherlock forced his way into her stream of rambling. "Mrs. Hudson! Have you seen John?"

"I'm sorry dear?"

"John. Is he there? Has he returned to the flat?"

"He was here much earlier, but hasn't been recently. I thought he was going to find you, dear. He mentioned something about St. Bart's. Oh. Oh dear…" Mrs. Hudson grew silent, but Sherlock could hear from her breathing that she was struggling to remain calm.

"Mrs. Hudson, I am currently at St. Bart's. John was here with me, but we became separated in the chaos and activity. Would you do me a favor please? I have John's mobile phone, so if he returns to the flat, he will not be able to contact me. You'll allow him use of your phone won't you?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson had begun to cry.

"Now, now, Mrs. Hudson. If John is still here, I will find him. I'll return him to Baker Street, and you can fret over him then. But please, will you do as I ask? Will you call me, or have John call me, the moment he arrives there?"

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson sniffled.

"Thank you," Sherlock was overwhelmed with tender concern for the woman. He had never let her down before, and did not intend to do so now. "I will bring him home, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock sighed as he disconnected the call. As he began to pick his way through the crowd, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"An… any luck?" Molly's voice wavered as she asked the question. Sherlock noticed that she had diverted her eyes to look at the ground. She was clearly feigning support for his crusade; obviously she believed the death sentence that had been declared.

"Don't you patronize me, Miss Hooper. Either you are going to help me find John, or you will excuse yourself from my presence," Sherlock snapped. He could tell his words stung, but he didn't care. He didn't have time to play games. He had to find John.

"Sherlock, I'm here aren't I? If you believe John is still alive, then it has to be true. You're Sherlock Holmes! Of course you're right." Molly attempted a smile, but was unsuccessful.

If he were being honest, Sherlock would have admitted that his confidence in finding John alive was weak at best. He had heard the firefighter's account. He had felt for himself the force of that last explosion.

He also had no doubt that John would have been right in the midst of the most danger.

But his heart wouldn't allow him to accept it, though he knew better. He knew he was acting on sentiment. Words he had spoken not so long ago about sentimentality rang through his mind. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." He closed his eyes, and shook the thought from his mind. He had to approach this search with logic. If sentiment propelled him, so be it, but he had to rely on his strengths.

Strength. John was strong. He was a soldier. A doctor, yes, but he had gone through basic training. He could be stubborn, and he was easily attracted to dangerous situations, but he was smart. And his military experience would prove to be an advantage. Sherlock had seen him stand in adversity too many times to believe that John would have given up without a fight.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"He is still around front, organizing officers to help expedite evacuating everyone from the area. That's partly why I came to find you. They barricaded off the entire block, and no one gets through to leave without giving their name and contact information to officers. They have explicit instructions to radio Greg immediately if John tries to leave."

Sherlock nodded. It was a very good idea. The place was flooded with potential witnesses to the explosion; certainly someone would have seen where the blast originated, or possibly even the bomber. Most people would just be anxious to leave, so providing their name and contact number would seem of little consequence. Sherlock experienced a brief moment of appreciation for the DI. "What else?"

"Individuals who had already been admitted to the hospital, and are able to under their own power, are being loaded onto those buses," Molly pointed to a queue of a dozen or so school buses that had only recently arrived. "They're being transported to other hospitals for care. Hospital staff is taking record of each patient as they board. Some nurses and doctors are being transported with them, in case they need attention during the commute. Greg recommended we start there, since John was helping patients, maybe he made it aboard one of them." Molly looked up to Sherlock, took his hand, and began to lead him to the first bus.

Sherlock was impressed by Molly's sudden boldness. Ordinarily he would have attempted to put her in her place, but for the first time in his own recollection, he allowed someone besides John to direct his next course of action. Try as he might, he had thus far been unsuccessful in organizing his thoughts enough to form a search plan. There was an unsettling feeling of disconnect taking over his mind, and he felt that his head was floating somewhere separate from his body. His head throbbed and his neck and back ached, likely from being thrown back by the explosion. It was a nice reprieve, if only momentary, to allow someone else to think for him.

As they walked, Molly continued, "Patients in need of more emergent attention, and those who were injured during the explosions, are being transported by ambulance, and officers are taking down names and destinations before they leave. A few of those patients had already been transported, and Greg has people working on tracking down who they are and where they went. Hospital staff members not required for the transport of patients are to report to the medic station in order to be accounted for, and to be given further instruction. Rescue workers are helping in the transport effort, and fire and bomb crews are working on containing the fire, and searching the… the debris…" Molly's stutter brought Sherlock to attention.

"That leaves us," he stopped walking long enough to turn to Molly and offered a slight smile.

"Yes. Greg said we are free to talk to anyone, approach any bus or transport, but we must not attempt to go into the hospital. Not yet. It's too dangerous." Molly squeezed his hand.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock whispered, as he turned to approach the first bus.

The two decided to divide and conquer, each checking six buses. They would examine the check list created as patients and staff boarded the bus first, then they would walk up and down the aisle, matching names with individuals. They had to move quickly, in order to get the patients on their way to alternate care facilities.

Their search turned up fruitless. Not one person even remembered seeing John. Sherlock and Molly spent the next several hours weaving in and out of groups of bystanders waiting patiently to be released from the scene, all to no avail. Dusk was creeping on as the area around the hospital finally cleared out of all civilian and non-hospital personnel.

Large spotlights had been set up to provide light for the continuing search and recovery effort. The early evening sky was heavy with dark clouds and the lingering haze of dust and smoke from the few fires that still smoldered within the hospital. The spot lights and flashing emergency lights from the law enforcement and rescue vehicles parked around the perimeter cast eerie shadows. The scene had taken on an almost ethereal appearance, added to by the low murmur of the voices of curious on-lookers and news reporters standing just beyond the barricades.

Sherlock was exhausted. He remembered instances in the past when he had thought he had been exhausted, but none compared to this. His head ached just trying to think, and every step was weighted down by the discouragement that seemed to grow by the moment. He had lost count of the number of times they had circled the hospital. How many people had they talked to? No, it didn't matter. None of it mattered. There was only one thing that mattered. Where was John?

A small sniffle broke through Sherlock's contemplation, and he looked down at Molly's streaked and dirty face. She looked terrible. Sherlock could tell she was as exhausted as he was, and she was trying equally as hard to keep her emotions in check. He had thought the fact that she had been leaning on his arm was her attempt to comfort him, but he realized she was simply trying to stay on her feet. With little resistance from Molly, Sherlock changed their course, and guided her to the medic station.

Nonessential hospital staff had been dismissed, leaving a handful of doctors and nurses to set up a makeshift triage, in the case that anyone was rescued from the hospital. Fire and rescue crews were taking shifts resting, and auxiliary crews had arrived from neighboring stations to help relieve the exhausted and dehydrated rescuers. Law enforcement maintained the barricade, and fielded questions and concerns from families who had not yet been notified of their loved ones' whereabouts. Local shop owners had generously donated food, coffee and bottled water.

"Sit here," Sherlock took Molly by the shoulders and directed her to the hard plastic seat.

"Where are you going?" Her eyes clouded over, as she reluctantly sat. "I need to stay with you. We have to…"

"Molly, you've been on your feet for hours. You must be starving. I'm just going to get you something to eat, and to see if I can find Lestrade. I will be right back."

"No, I better come too," Molly groaned as she moved to stand.

"Stay," Sherlock pointed at her and spoke a little too sternly.

Glancing around the designated rest area, Sherlock didn't see Lestrade, but he noticed the familiar form of Sergeant Donovan slumped in a chair, resting her forehead on the table in front of her. It was as if he could hear John's stern nagging reminding him that she had been through the same day that he had. Exhaling deeply, Sherlock approached the detective.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

"What now?" Donovan snapped, without lifting her head from the table.

"Are you alright?"

The Sergeant's shoulders tensed as she finally realized who was disturbing her rest. She raised her head, surprised by the question, and looked Sherlock up and down. She bit her lip before speaking, "I'm… I'm exhausted." Donovan narrowed her eyes, "You look terrible." She stood to her feet, staring Sherlock down. "You need to sit down." It was not so much an observation as a command. She pointed to the empty chair next to her, "now."

"No thank you, I just came to inquire after Lestrade. Have you seen him?" Sherlock turned to scan the area once more, but froze in shock as Donovan reached up, placing a hand on either side of his head, and pulled his face a few inches from her own. Stunned silent, and more than a little confused, Sherlock searched the Sergeant's face. Her eyes widened, and Sherlock thought he read concern there.

"Sit" Donovan commanded. "I need a medic over here!"

"Excuse me, but what is the meaning of this?" Sherlock demanded. He was aware it was socially unacceptable to strike a woman, though he was morally seldom above such behavior, and under the circumstances he was seconds away from acting on his instinct.

Donovan swore under her breath as Sherlock ducked away from her. "Freak, you have concussion. A pretty serious one I'd say. I knew something was wrong, you were being too nice. Now, sit down while I get a medic over here. Seriously, where is everyone?"

"Sergeant, I appreciate the concern, but I am fine," Sherlock lied. The truth was he suspected Donovan was correct in her assessment, based on the increasing severity of his headache, and the fact that he hadn't been able to access the mind palace for some time now. As infuriating as it was, he was forced to think as a normal person would in this, the most urgent of situations. The fact that he was failing John constantly plagued his mind. "Please, have you seen Lestrade?" He was very near begging at this point.

Donovan gritted her teeth. "If I tell you where he is, will you let a medic examine you?"

Despite recognizing the obvious concern in the Sergeant's voice, Sherlock exhaled deeply in exasperation. "Fine. I will submit myself to a thorough examination. _After_ I speak to Lestrade."

Donovan rolled her eyes, and sat with a huff. "He's been looking for you, about twenty minutes now. Tried your mobile, must be dead." She suddenly sounded very tired, and there was a note of sadness in her tone.

Sherlock pulled the mobile from his pocket, and most assuredly, it was dead. He checked John's as well. It too was completely drained. "Do you have any idea where I might find him?"

"Check near the main entrance," and with that she laid her head back on the table. As Sherlock turned away, Donovan shouted after him, "Find a medic! If you end up with brain damage, it's your own fault!"

In his haste, Sherlock nearly forgot about Molly. He quickly wrapped a peanut butter sandwich in a napkin, grabbed water and an apple, and sprinted for where he had left her. He approached her quietly, as she had dozed off, with her head resting against the wall. He was torn between waking her and letting her rest. With no time, and even less will, to make a sound decision he placed the bundle of food on her lap, and covered her with his coat in order to shield her from the chill of the night air.

With a last glance at Molly, Sherlock sprinted off to Lestrade. The DI was huddled in a group of firefighters looking over what appeared to be blueprints. Sherlock noticed, with no small amount of anger, that several men were preparing to go into the building, as another group was coming out. He should have been made aware. He was about to launch into a violent word assault against the DI, when he remembered what Donovan had said. Lestrade had been trying to find him.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock approached the group.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shoved the blueprints into another officer's hands. "You guys got this, yeah? I need a minute." Without giving Sherlock a chance to speak, Lestrade grabbed him by the elbow and walked him away from the crowd.

Sherlock's heart was racing; he could hear his pulse coursing in his ears. "What?" His own voice sounded suddenly haggard and harsh. "What is it? Did you find him? Where is he?"

"Sherlock, it's not good news." Lestrade closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "The recovery team found something and, well… I wanted you to identify it before anything else happens."

Fighting the urge to punch Lestrade and scream profanities at him, Sherlock swallowed hard. "What is it? Show me."

Without a word to Sherlock, Lestrade turned and walked to where the main entrance had been. He clicked on his torch, and motioned to another officer to hand his torch over to Sherlock. As he stepped across the threshold into the charred debris, he shouted, "Clear the floor!" and the group of firefighters who had been inspecting what was left of the corridor trickled slowly past Sherlock. Most kept their heads down as they passed, but a few cast sympathetic sideways glances. Sherlock struggled with a very uneasy feeling as he clicked his torch on.

He stepped carefully to catch up with Lestrade. The two took their time stepping over collapsed walls, and ducking under fallen beams, for several metres. The going was so excruciatingly slow. They came to a stop before yet another blackened heap of beams and crumbled brick. It looked very much like all the others they had bypassed.

"What am I looking at?" Sherlock asked. He looked at his companion for the first time in the darkness. In the shadows cast by the large spot lights, and despite the unsuccessful attempt to scrub away caked on layers of the day's grime, the color had drained from Lestrade's face. He suddenly looked ten years older, and exhausted beyond recognition. Sherlock wasn't sure how it was the DI was still standing upright.

"There," Lestrade pointed the beam of his light into the nearest pile. The flash glinted off of something metallic. "I need that object identified. I need you, Sherlock, to tell me what that is." His voice was heavy with emotion.

Sherlock slowly approached the heap. "I'll need to pick it up, is that okay? I won't incur the wrath of Anderson?"

"Just… _Carefully_ …" Lestrade's voice was barely above a whisper.

With some effort, Sherlock was able to get his hand on the metal object, and work it free from its charred prison. The weight felt familiar, but something was off. No sooner had he shone his light on the object in his hand did he drop both, turn from the scene and retch. It had been so long since he had had anything to eat or drink, all he could do was dry heave, but he couldn't stop the reflex. His head screamed in agony, the pain exacerbated by the understanding of what he had just seen.

"Sherlock," Lestrade placed his hand on the broken man's back. Sherlock wrenched himself away.

"Air," he rasped, "I need air." He turned, and stumbling over debris in the darkness, ran out into the night, just beyond the crowd of waiting firefighters, and fell to his knees. Gasping for air, he clawed at his shirt to undo the top buttons. He was suffocating.

He heard Lestrade behind him, but he refused to acknowledge the other man's presence.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice was full of sorrow, yet Sherlock detected an almost parental sternness. "Look at me, Sherlock. I need you to identify this object."

"I… can't. I-I've never seen that before in my life," Sherlock lied. If he didn't say it, it wouldn't be true.

"We both know that's not the truth. Sherlock, give it another look. You have to. If you don't, someone else will identify it, and do you really want someone else to tell you what you already know?" Sherlock hated Lestrade's compassionate tone, the reason and logic behind his words, and his very being shook with anger because of what the DI asked of him.

Sitting on the ground, Sherlock accepted a torch, and then took the object in his other hand. It was undeniable. Besides being slightly warped from the heat, this was John's gun. The Sig, his service weapon from the military. They were illegal for civilians to use or own. He wasn't sure how John had retained his gun, but he had. It was the one possession he guarded most highly. He would never have left it laying anywhere unattended. And Sherlock had pulled it from near the bottom of a heap of charred ruins.

Turning the gun in his hand, he noticed a clump of burnt wool yarn caught in the trigger. It was scorched, but Sherlock was certain it matched the jumper John had been wearing that day. He inhaled sharply as he noticed a key had left an impression in the melted grip of the weapon.

"It's his," Sherlock looked up at Lestrade. He knew what the DI needed from him, but he didn't know if he could deliver. He sat there on the ground, shivering. He could feel the chill of the air, though he wasn't cold. He wasn't hot. He wasn't anything. There was nothing to f eel. So he just sat there shaking because he couldn't control himself. He couldn't control anything. He had tried to manipulate Moriarty, and control the world as he knew it, and it backfired. John was dead, and it was his fault.

"Sherlock?" Molly and Sergeant Donovan approached slowly as they noticed the man on the ground. He looked small, and weak. "Are you…" Molly's words trailed off as she saw what he held in his hand, and her eyes filled with tears. Despite herself, Donovan's hand instinctively flew to cover her mouth.

With head bowed, as if in prayer, Sherlock confirmed what Lestrade had already suspected. With raspy voice, and much effort, he forced himself to say the words, "It's John's gun." He limply handed it to the DI, and continued. "That's, uhm… That's a piece of yarn from the jumper he was wearing. And if you use that… that key mark as a mold, the resulting key will unlock 221b Baker Street. He never… John seldom let that gun out of his sight. If… if it was in that rubble… so was he."

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice cracked as he stifled a sob. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. Do you hear me? I'm sorry I made you do that, but I needed you to see for yourself." Lestrade dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Molly draped Sherlock's coat around his shoulders, and moved as if to sit next to him. Sergeant Donovan was calling for a medic. Suddenly it was all too much. Even out in the night air he felt immensely claustrophobic. Pushing away hands that tried to help him, he stood up and glanced back at the ruins of St. Bart's. An emotion began to rise in his chest. What was it? Not sorrow. Rage. Fierce and consuming, as he had never experienced before. It was boiling up, and he couldn't stay there any longer.

"I am going to end the men who did this," Sherlock growled. "And don't you try to get in my way," with narrowed eyes, he turned to Lestrade.

"I wouldn't dare." Greg extended his hand to Sherlock in a gesture of support that was not wasted on the determined consulting detective. "What do we do now?"

"John is dead. This is Moriarty's work. His network of terrorists and criminals has made a fatal error. They killed the wrong man, and I am going to make certain they know it. I need to get to Baker Street immediately. My mobile is dead, but I need to contact Mycroft. Lestrade, do you…" Sherlock was cut short by a piercing cry from a most unexpected source. He would not have been stunned silent if it had come from Molly, but the look on Molly's face registered the same shock he experienced.

"STOP," Donovan shouted. "You may have everyone else convinced that you are some sort of superhuman, soulless, automaton, but you aren't. You are a man who just found out his best mate is dead. He's dead, Sherlock. John is dead." All eyes were on the Sergeant, and she stood there shaking with tears streaming down her face.

"I am aware, Sergeant." Sherlock's tone was soft, if slightly tense. Despite the rage he felt, Donovan's words pulled at his heart, or what was left of it. He was conflicted, and the emotions that tried to overtake him were dizzying.

"Why? Why is he dead? Why him, of all people? And why aren't you a mess? I don't even like you, and…" Donovan couldn't restrain the sobs any longer.

Sherlock looked from Molly to Lestrade. What would John have done? He inhaled and took a step towards Donovan. In a gesture that shocked everyone, himself included, Sherlock embraced her and whispered, "I don't know." He didn't have the answers. He didn't know why John was dead, when it should have been him. He thought back to mere hours ago when he had been perched to jump from the roof of the hospital. How had everything gone so sideways in such a short amount of time?

The two lingered in the embrace for only a brief moment, but it was long enough for Donovan to compose herself. It was also just enough time for Sherlock to realize the dizziness he had experienced was not emotional after all. "Perhaps I should see that medic now." No sooner had he spoken the words than he stumbled slightly back, and grasped Donovan's arms for stability.

A medic and Sherlock were loaded into the backseat of a patrol car, with Lestrade riding along up front, and the driving officer given explicit instructions to get to the nearest hospital by whatever means necessary. From the time of his embrace with Donovan, Sherlock remembered very little as the symptoms of the concussion intensified. The medic feared there may be lasting effects, and he wasn't able to properly examine the wound, as Sherlock's hair was matted with ash, building dust, and blood.

A few hours later Sherlock awoke to the sound of monitors beeping. The abrasive scent of anesthetics stung his olfactory senses. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion and he nearly gave in to the desire to keep them closed. He struggled to recall where he was. Someone sat, slumped down and snoring softly, in the chair next to the bed. The bed was clearly not his own.

"John?" his voice was rough, his mouth was so dry and his tongue felt like lead. The person next to him stirred. Somewhere in the room the scent of acrid smoke lingered.

"Sherlock," Lestrade swiped his hand over his face and scooted nearer the bedside. "Sherlock… No..."

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He was hooked up to an IV, and he must have been bathed, the grime and dust was mostly gone, though evidence of the day's horrors remained caked black under his fingernails. He was wearing scrubs. Lestrade had showered and was wearing scrubs as well. He noticed two plastic bags on the counter across from him. One had his belongings unceremoniously crammed into it, and Lestrade's filled the other. Those were the source of the smoke smell.

"I remember…" Sherlock didn't need to finish the thought. Understanding registered on Lestrade's face. The two sat in silence for a few moments. "How long have I been here?"

"Only a few hours. It's not even dawn yet," Lestrade explained. "The doctor wanted to make sure you rested a while. You've a nasty concussion, but nothing you won't recover from. Twelve stitches and a lump on the back of your head. You were very dehydrated. Doctors want you to stay a few days for observation. But I…"

"That's not happening. I'm leaving this moment." Sherlock's throat was raw from the smoke inhalation, and his head still felt as if it were splitting, but there was too much to be done. He could not remain confined in this room a minute longer. Likely, Moriarty's network had already begun to dig their claws deep into society as anarchy would certainly soon reign in the fallout from the mastermind's death. He pulled the cannula delivering fresh oxygen away from his nose, and attempted to peel the tape away from his IV, but his eyes blurred and his hands were trembling, causing his fingers to fumble. He coughed a string of curses, and prepared to grab the IV tubing and yank, when Lestrade's hand clamped down over his.

"What are you doing? Just take it easy. I know your mind is a million other places, and this is the last place you feel you need to be. I get it, which is why" Lestrade leaned to glance out the door of the room to the nurse's station, and dropped his voice. "It's why I told them you're in my custody, and that the minute you're conscious I'm dragging you out of here and down to the Yard."

"Wha..?" Sherlock blinked in disbelief. "They believed you?"

"They knew where we came from. I've got my badge and a constable with me. I just played the blustered, inconvenienced detective and mumbled some nonsense about explosives and surveillance. I think they believe you're the bomber, actually."

"I've been believed to be worse." The statement caused Lestrade to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Sherlock sighed, relaxed slightly, and let go of the IV tubing. Running his hand through his hair, he paused long enough to finger the stitches and knot on the back of his head. Had all of this really happened in such a short period of time? Headlines that had run in all the papers, destroying his reputation, flashed through his mind.

He looked up at Lestrade. The DI looked exhausted. His face, neck and arms were covered in tiny cuts and scrapes, probably from the flying debris as the hospital collapsed. Sherlock imagined his face looked much the same, he noticed that his arms definitely did. Lestrade had a small line of stitches above his left eyebrow, and a few along his jaw line. He had been injured as they had attempted to rescue John. The dust and ash from the hospital had covered the evidence.

Sherlock filed the observation away in the sluggish, though finally accessible, file he kept on Detective Inspector Lestrade. First name, Greg.

"You stayed here with me?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Wasn't about to leave you alone. Besides, I had to make it convincing, my guarding you and all." The DI paused, and Sherlock knew there was more he needed to say. He nodded his head in attempted encouragement, and Lestrade ran his hand nervously over his hair. "I already know the answer. I just, I have to ask, please don't be angry…"

"No, I did not blow up the hospital," Sherlock sighed. "But I know who did. Rather, I know who arranged to have it done."

"Moriarty," Lestrade leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "You mentioned that."

"Did I?" He genuinely couldn't remember. Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "He's dead. Please, don't ask me how I know this. His network is now the concern."

"I believe you. Just needed to hear you say it for myself," Lestrade nodded slightly. He fidgeted with the hem of his scrub top for a moment before looking up at Sherlock. "Do you think he meant to…"

"He was a manipulative, twisted, maniacal genius. When he made a promise, he kept it without fail," Sherlock sat very still in his bed. He anticipated the next question as he read the confused look on Lestrade's face.

"What does that mean? What promise did he make to you, Sherlock?" Even as Lestrade asked the question, Sherlock could tell the DI didn't really want to know the answer. It was too terrible.

"He," Sherlock paused. He waited for the rage to rear back up, to feel the surge of hatred course through his veins, but it never came. He didn't feel anything other than a hollow, cavernous void in his chest. Moriarty had indeed kept his promise. "He promised he would burn the heart right out of me."

Lestrade didn't try to hide the impact the statement had. To Sherlock, the DI appeared as if he'd been punched in the gut, and all the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Oh. Oh God, Sherlock," Lestrade had not regained his breath. "I… I…"

"Moriarty played at games and metaphors. He rebelled against the mundane and common. I… I had no idea he'd be capable of being so… literal, of killing John in an ordinary terrorist plot." Sherlock paused as he noticed the horror on Lestrade's face. "Sorry, a bit not good, I know. But that was how Moriarty worked. This all seems so… beneath him; out of character almost." He suddenly felt very cold, and adjusted his blankets, though he knew the action would make no difference. His head began to throb again, and he pressed his hands to either side of his forehead.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?" Lestrade snapped to attention as soon as he noticed Sherlock's distress.

"Just a headache," Sherlock replied weakly. He laid back and closed his eyes.

Lestrade stood, "I'm getting a nurse." Before Sherlock could protest, Lestrade strode from the room. The DI's attempt at confidence was weak at best; he may have fooled the hospital staff, but Sherlock knew better. The events of the day had crushed him.

John had been Lestrade's friend too. Though he would have preferred for John's full attention to remain singularly focused on himself, and despite knowing that he did in fact occupy the majority of John's mental processes, there were bits of John that Sherlock simply could not, would not, relate to. Ordinary, everyday things that John cared about, and if John cared about them they must be important, therefore Sherlock had decided John deserved to have a friend to cultivate and share those experiences with.

He had mentally assessed as complete a list of John's acquaintances as was available to him. It was an alarmingly meager list, and as such, he quickly and systematically excluded every candidate as dull and unworthy of John's companionship. Upon reevaluation, Lestrade had distinguished himself as the least objectionable option simply because Sherlock was already familiar with, and had learned to tolerate, his particular brand of idiocy. Both John and Lestrade were men of rank and file, who cherished order, possessed elevated senses of morality, and who cared about and understood such mundane subjects as rugby scores and the order of the solar system.

Sherlock would never have admitted he was jealous of the camaraderie shared between the detective and the soldier, especially to Lestrade, but he knew it to be true. He had indeed been shocked upon the realization. And now that John was dead, Sherlock truly regretted the missed opportunities to further understand the man he considered his best friend. He had never actually regretted any of his own actions or choices before that very moment, and the sensation was so unpleasant that he entertained the notion that he had indeed suffered some sort of brain damage. He considered deleting the revelation, deciding instead to construct a firewall, safeguarding any and every detail and emotion, pleasant or otherwise, associated with John Watson. The data was now more precious than ever, and every effort would have to be made to preserve even the most insignificant quirk and detail.

Cataloging every detail of John's existence would take time. Time and energy. Resources Sherlock vitally needed for the task of burning Moriarty's network to the ground. With a determination that manifested itself in a silent sob and a dull ache in his chest, Sherlock slammed and bolted the heavy, reinforced door, sealing off the rooms dedicated to John Hamish Watson, until such time as he could dedicate himself fully to the endeavor. John's memory deserved his full attention, but first he had a job to do.

There was a commotion in the hall outside Sherlock's room, and he could hear Lestrade making a fuss, demanding the "prisoner" be released immediately as time was of the essence. It was a tantrum truly worthy of Sherlock, and he huffed in amusement at the effort Lestrade was exerting. The room would soon be swarming with hospital staff, and he would be released into a world without the buffer of John at his side. He rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes in an effort gather his focus.

The game... No. Not a game. Never a game... The hunt. Yes. The hunt was on...

* * *

Mrs. Hudson placed the tea tray on the side table softly, so as not to disrupt Sherlock. He sat, still as a statue, in his chair, fingers pressed together under his chin, eyes glazed and focused on nothing in particular. Suddenly he started, focusing on this intruder.

"You made me tea?"

"I make you tea every day, dear. How else did you think it happened?" Sherlock accepted the steaming cup and leaned back in his chair.

"Today is the day," Mrs. Hudson's comment was barely more than a whisper. She gingerly sat in the arm chair. John's chair. His long ago discarded cane still leaned in the corner, coated in dust.

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock asked. He had heard her, but his mind was unwilling to accept what day this was.

"The memorial, dear. For John." The memorial had been delayed several days longer than usual. John's sister had not received the news well, and had nearly killed herself by way of alcohol poisoning in an attempt to silence her emotions. The extra time had allowed Sherlock, against doctor's orders and Lestrade's demands, to begin his hunt. He had successfully identified several leads and located a handful of lowest rung grunt men.

"You're going aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Of course you are. You two were…"

"Associates. Flatmates. I solve crimes, and he use to write about it. We were what, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock winced as the dear lady gasped. He had not meant to snap at her. He knew the social convention was to comfort one who had lost a friend. Sherlock loathed social conventions. He never understood them. The more Molly called _just to check on him,_ the more Lestrade _just happened to be in the neighborhood,_ and the more Mrs. Hudson doted, the more uncomfortable he felt. Even Mycroft had stopped to express his condolences and inquire after his welfare, though Sherlock sensed he was not truly sincere.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. As you can imagine, John's death has been a shock to my emotions," Sherlock lied, "and with the added stress of my own injuries, I am simply not ready to talk about it yet."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, sympathy on her face, and she dabbed the tears from her eyes. "I understand dear. If you decide you want to talk, you know where to find me. And I have a car coming at 1:00, if you'd like a ride to the service." She stood to leave the flat.

"Thank you, but I believe I will find my own way there." Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for her to leave.

He knew what people were thinking. They stared at him in confusion and disdain, wondering what was wrong with him. John was his friend. He was the only person, beside Mycroft, that Sherlock had ever let inside. And what was worse, John's death was Sherlock's fault. He knew they blamed him. Had he never invited John to join him on a case, John would have never been in harm's way. "He would've been miserable!" Sherlock stated out loud. But try as he might, he could not express himself in sorrow the way everyone expected him to. Beyond the initial shock on the day of the fire, nothing even close to sorrow registered. Even Harry, John's sister, in the midst of her recovery, had stopped by to console him (she had brought cookies - they were awful). The man's own sister, grieving in her own right, left the flat in confusion at Sherlock's response.

There was an emotion though. And though it made little sense, Sherlock was energized by it, compelled to continue on. _Rage_. Sherlock had experienced it on the day of John's death, and every day since. He often found himself lost entirely to it. In the few short days since the explosion, his microscope, several dishes, a mirror, his treasured violin bow, the alley cat outside, and two of Moriarty's men had been on the receiving end of Sherlock's rage. Lestrade had had to restrain him to keep him from killing a suspect.

It ate away at him. It kept him awake at night. When he did sleep, it crept into his dreams.

Mrs. Hudson leaving through the front door alerted Sherlock to the time. He sat still in the silence of the flat. A silence that had once been peaceful and calming now only served to magnify his awareness that he was alone. The bigness of the stillness thundered in his ears. Dust mites danced in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the glowing stripe cutting a diagonal slice across the empty and well worn armchair sitting in front of him. A cold, and now fermenting, partial cup of tea, bearing the emblem of The Royal Army Medical Corps, still sat on the small side table.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

He could use a cigarette, but Sherlock hadn't been to the market, and John had hidden his last pack.

Exasperated, Sherlock slammed his hands down on the arms of the chair. He had to get out of this infernal flat. The silence, normally welcome, was deafening.

He swung his coat on, and couldn't recall whether he had worn it since that day. The day John died. He brushed at the sleeve and flipped the collar up. Mrs. Hudson must have had it laundered. He twisted a grey scarf around his neck. His old blue one had been ruined that day. This one had been a gift. He had purchased it for John, despite the fact that John seldom wore scarves. He had, though, worn it recently on a case. The smell of outdoors and John's aftershave still faintly lingered.

Sherlock wandered aimlessly through the maze of London. He found himself on streets where he and John had solved cases. He didn't linger.

In the distance he heard a clock chime two. The memorial service would be starting. He made his way toward the church. He would be late. Just as well. He wouldn't have to talk to anyone that way.

Sherlock quietly snuck in the door, and bypassing the photos and tributes arranged in the outer hall, took his place, standing at the back of the large sanctuary. The place was filled to capacity. Sherlock recognized Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson seated near Harry, John's only family. He spotted the five people John had rescued from the fire, and their families. He chuckled when he noticed one young man had a broken nose. He was certain that was John's handiwork, and not much deduction was needed to see the young man had had an attitude. His pleasure at his friend's exploits was cut short at the sight of a young girl. The little girl who had given Sherlock John's wallet, and had warned him that danger was near. She sat on her mother's lap; she had herself been a fire victim. But her bandages were not what brought Sherlock pause. No. The little girl was wearing a man's coat. The garment was filthy, and far too large for her petite frame. He recognized it as John's. Sherlock had forgotten that she was wearing it that day. John must have wrapped her in it, to shield her from the fire.

Sherlock's gasp was audible. Thankfully, someone had stepped to the podium, and no one seemed to notice.

There was what felt to Sherlock to be an endless parade of individuals, colleagues and patients recounting tales of John's kindness, fellow soldiers telling tales of his bravery, and friends shedding tears as they bumbled their way through humorous anecdotes. Perhaps most surprising to Sherlock was when the list of John's accomplishments was read. Why had he not known about all of those military commendations? His friend had been highly decorated, and Sherlock had never known.

And the commendations did not end there. A fund had been started in John's name, to help rebuild the hospital. He was being awarded, posthumously, England's highest civilian honor, the George Cross medal, for his acts of valor and courage in the circumstance of extreme danger. And who but Sherlock's own brother stood to initiate the presentation.

While Sherlock was moved at the thought that such a man had considered him his friend, the whole pomp and ceremony was simply too much to bear. Who was this man, this John Watson? The most caring, most compassionate, most long suffering (Sherlock had proven that), most courageous war hero, who carried little girls from fires? And why on earth had he agreed to be Sherlock's flatmate, and then tolerate his inane, infuriating eccentricities? John was his best friend, his only friend, and seems he had never really known him at all.

But John had known him. After Sherlock had accused him of not paying attention, John disproved him every day. He recognized often when John would guide a conversation with a client that was beginning to bore Sherlock. He recognized it in the way John organized the refrigerator, and made room in the cupboards for Sherlock's experiments. He recognized it in the way John knew when it was not a good time to strike up a conversation, and when it was a good time to avoid the flat altogether. John had known him better than anyone ever had, and Sherlock had taken advantage of that fact.

Just when he thought the socially acceptable emotion of sorrow might make an appearance, Sherlock was struck once again by the fact that the wrong man was dead. Mycroft was droning on, and the memorial was nearly through, but Sherlock had to leave. The rage was returning.

Now was the time to let the rage lead him. There would be sufficient time to mourn John after Moriarty's network was dismantled.

He texted Lestrade. _"Baker Street. SH."_

It was dusk when the DI arrived at the flat. Sherlock had assumed Lestrade would stay for the remainder of the service.

There was no graveside memorial. There were no remains to bury.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade slowly entered the dark flat. Sherlock sat in his chair, as usual, hands pressed together under his chin, eyes unfocused.

Sherlock gestured to the armchair, John's armchair, across from him.

"Did you mean it?" Sherlock asked, his voice low.

"Mean what?" The DI looked confused.

"That day, you said you wouldn't dare stop me. Did you mean it?"

Lestrade took a deep breath, considered his words, and slowly, he started, "Yes. I meant it with all of my heart. Moriarty was a monster. As long as his men are out there, he's still alive. Someone has to end them. It may as well be you."

Sherlock nodded. He hadn't expected Lestrade to agree. Even more unexpected was what followed.

"I also meant it when we shook hands. I asked you what do we do now, and I meant it. I'm in. I have certain obvious restrictions because of my career, but any resource I have is yours. John was one of the best men I have ever known. And how he tolerated you, I will never know. He didn't deserve this. But those maniacs deserve what's coming to them."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "Very well." He didn't know how to respond. Lestrade was willing to risk everything on Sherlock's ability to bring down Moriarty's network.

"Sherlock, one more thing." Lestrade stood to leave. "I know you don't do emotional… stuff… And I know I can never, ever, fill the gap John left, but just know, if you need a friend, you've got one."

Sherlock sat motionless as Lestrade let himself out. The gravity of the DI's words rested heavy on Sherlock. A friend.

That night Sherlock Holmes shed the only tears he would ever shed over the death of John Watson.


	3. Dante

Mycroft Holmes did not care for John Watson. John Watson was well aware of that fact.

To be honest, the feeling was mutual.

What kind of man tried to pay his brother's flatmate to spy on him? If Sherlock was cold and unfeeling, Mycroft was a glacier. And pompous. Though he accused John of being a distraction to Sherlock, Mycroft was largely responsible for introducing Sherlock into nearly every life threatening situation that John actually knew of. How many others were there?

Then there was this. The level of insanity of the scene before John's eyes was infuriating. And this was _all_ Mycroft.

Sherlock was perched on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew's rooftop, leaving John to assume that the scenario had played out as Mycroft had supposed it would, and that Moriarty was dead. John knew that also meant Moriarty's men were lying in wait, ready to launch strikes against Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and himself. A chill ran down his spine as he could feel the sniper rifle trained on the back of his head.

Sherlock was oblivious to the fact that John knew what was next. He was ready to plunge from the rooftop, onto the inflated bag, and John was to play the part of devastated best friend. At least, that's what Sherlock thought came next. The real "next" was far more complicated, and dangerous, and comprised a deception so grand, John Watson hated himself for his role in it.

And he hated Mycroft Holmes for constructing it.

"John." Both Holmes brothers spoke his name at the same time, drawing him from his thoughtful contemplation; Sherlock via mobile, Mycroft by ear piece.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock pleaded.

"It's time John. Plan 'Dante' is in place... If you fail to comply with the plan, you will not only risk your own life, but Sherlock will be in the gravest of danger. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Mycroft's tone was both threatening and condescending. John was torn, he had agreed to Mycroft's plan for one reason: Sherlock. But he feared what his involvement would do to his friend. He wanted to scream at Mycroft, but he couldn't even respond without Sherlock hearing him.

And Sherlock. He was on that rooftop, struggling at attempted sentiment. John could hear it in his voice, but could only respond with dull, dimwitted pleas of "No!" and "Don't!" He wanted to tell Sherlock what was about to happen, to tell him not to worry, but could do nothing of the sort with Mycroft Holmes in his head.

"Brace yourself, John." It was the kindest thing Mycroft had ever done for John. Barely had the words crackled through the ear piece than the first blast detonated. Despite knowing it was coming, John's military experience took over, and he dove to the ground, covering his head for protection.

"Really, John? Pathetic," Mycroft mocked.

"Where are you, you little..."

"Ah ah ah, John, Sherlock could hear you. Get his attention. Convince him to meet you in the building. Use whatever means necessary. You have to make sure he gets out safely. The next blast is set to go off in two minutes. Go in after that. I will keep contact with you." John tried to focus on Mycroft's rambling, but his gaze was pulled to the rooftop when he heard what had to be Sherlock cry his name. He saw his friend peering over the edge of the building and then collapse out of sight. If that blast had injured Sherlock, Mycroft would pay dearly. Even if it killed him, John would make sure Mycroft would pay.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay? Sherlock!" John stood up slowly, shouting into the phone, begging Sherlock to pick up. What was taking so long? Anger coursed through John as he considered charging into the building before the next blast.

"J... J-john..." Sherlock stammered.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me? There was an explosion. Did you see where it came from? I can't see anything from down here!" And so the lies began. John watched as Sherlock moved to step back onto the ledge. What was that idiot doing? Just as John opened his mouth to caution Sherlock, Mycroft's voice crackled, "Bombs away." John watched helplessly as the second blast threw Sherlock backwards.

"John, the explosions are inside the hospital!"

"I can see the smoke now. I'm coming in there!"

"John, drop the phone and get in that building. Now," Mycroft demanded.

John, covered the mouth piece of his mobile, and in an act of defiance that threatened to ruin the whole plan, responded to Mycroft. "I am going. But I will not leave the phone."

"You must."

"No. It was a gift."

"I have ways to persuade you."

"John, don't be an idiot! Stay where you are, I'm coming down," Sherlock shouted through the phone.

Placing the receiver to his ear, John responded, "Sherlock, you know as well as I do that you're going to look for the source of the explosion before the fire services arrive and destroy the evidence. I'm coming in there so you don't get yourself killed! Besides..." John's sentence was cut short as a man on a bicycle clipped him, causing John to stumble back and his phone to skitter across the ground. Mycroft had left out that little detail of the "Lazarus" plan. "Oh brilliant, Mycroft. Thank you so much."

"Would you _please_ just go into the building, we are running out of time. Everyone is cleared out except the actors you are supposed to save. We can't have them killed for real, now can we?"

John hesitated. Mycroft was right. The deception had begun, but now lives actually depended on him. He glanced to the rooftop to make certain that Sherlock was watching, and then ran full clip into the hospital.

Somehow, using all of his connections, Mycroft had arranged for a delay in the fire and rescue response. John didn't care how it happened, just so long as he could get Sherlock and the others out of the building and to safety. Mycroft had tempted him with hero status, medals and commendations. John, in turn, had threatened to punch him in the face. John made his way up the main stairwell, as billows of thick, hot, black smoke flooded the building. This was crazy. Where was Sherlock?

"By the way, Molly Hooper was in on 'Lazarus.' She may need extraction as well," Mycroft chirped.

"Fantastic." John growled. He pushed a little harder against the burning in his lungs to get to Sherlock. As he turned onto the next flight, he nearly collided with someone.

"Sherlock! Have you heard from Molly? I didn't see her below. Should we help her?" John gasped, realizing the effect the smoke and flights of steps were having on his ability to breathe. John watched as the realization of imminent danger for his co-conspirator dawned on Sherlock. Sherlock looked to the stairwell, and John knew Sherlock had a plan. Good. When Sherlock had a plan John knew he could trust him without fail.

"Help! Help, medic? We need a medic over here!" A nurse emerged from the smoky hallway, she was covered in ash and a seeping gash crossed her forehead.

"Are either of you medics? We have patients over here we can't get out." Sherlock and John looked to each other, and John nodded, hoping Sherlock understood the meaning.

"You're on, Doctor Watson," Mycroft's voice crackled in John's ear.

"I'm a doctor. Sherlock, you get Molly, I'll assist here, and we meet by the medic station outside, okay?"

"Agreed... And John, do hurry." John knew his friend was attempting to express concern for his well being. He wanted to respond in kind, but knew that neither of them was out of danger just yet. If he spoke he might reveal the whole plan. All John could muster was a glance over his shoulder, and he thought he recognized reassurance register on Sherlock's face.

John's heart broke. He wasn't man enough to speak a few parting words to his best friend. Even Sherlock, the man John had called a machine, had been considerate enough to deliver "last words" just moments ago. And now John knew he would not have another opportunity.

John followed the nurse into the murky hallway, just out of Sherlock's sight, and then paused long enough to watch as Sherlock made his way to Molly's rescue.

"What now, Mycroft?" John sniffed. Surely it was because of the smoke that tears threatened to spill from his burning eyes.

"Follow the young lady downstairs. We've secured a wing that is, for the moment, safe from the smoke. There you will find five people who are in need of your assistance. The moment you break the airtight seal on the door to the wing, these individuals will be exposed to the smoke. Act swiftly and wisely."

"Five people. You sadist. Who am I looking for?"

"An elderly, immobile man. There will be a male orderly waiting to assist you. Take them first. Then a cancer patient, female, mid-fifties. She's mobile, but the chivalrous thing to do would be to carry her, don't you think? The young lady now accompanying you will need assistance as, by that time she will have lost a substantial amount of blood from that gash on her head..."

"Wait, that's real? You told me these were actors!"

"I said what I had to say to reassure you."

" _What_ have you done? Wait... you only listed four. Who's the fifth?"

"Ah..."

"Mycroft! The fifth person!"

"Seven year old female burn victim."

John reeled back. "Have you lost your mind? A child? I'm taking her first Mycroft."

"No. She's to be taken last. This is simply nonnegotiable."

"But..."

"Need I remind you, failure to comply with the plan..."

"Shut up Mycroft. We're here, I'm going in." John exhaled in frustration, as he and the nurse pushed the doors to the secure wing open. A blast of fresh, cool air caught him off guard, and he breathed deeply, pausing just momentarily. The nurse started to say something, but collapsed from the effects of the smoke and her wound. John pulled her farther into the hallway. In the first patient room, sitting anxiously on the edge of her bed, was the cancer patient. John motioned to her.

"My name is Doctor John Watson. I need your help. This nurse is injured, and I need for someone to keep pressure on this wound until I can get her to a medic. Do you feel strong enough to do that?"

"I... I think I can." John hoisted the nurse onto the woman's bed, and grabbing a towel, showed the woman exactly where to apply the pressure.

"I will be right back." The woman nodded, and John noticed her hands were trembling. "I'm going to kill Mycroft," John huffed under his breath as he headed back to the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. Just as Mycroft promised, black, acrid smoke was now rolling down the corridor.

"Tsk, temper, John," Mycroft scolded playfully. John grunted, and held his tongue. Leave it to a Holmes to misread propriety in any given situation. And to underestimate Captain John Watson's intentions once stated.

John approached the next room over, and thought perhaps this room was unoccupied, until he heard soft whimpering from the far side of the bed. John turned into the room, and sure enough, there was a young girl, both arms, her left leg, and part of her face, wrapped in gauze. John felt nauseated. How could Mycroft expect him to make this poor child wait?

"John? Have you started moving the first patient yet? You're running out of time!"

John sighed, exasperated. He approached the young girl, who cowered away from him. John crouched down to her level, "Sweetheart, my name is Doctor John. I'm going to get you out of here, but I have to go help someone else first. Can you be a brave girl and wait right here for me?"

" _PLEASE!_ " the little girl cried. "Please don't leave me! My daddy left me at the last fire, and didn't come back. You won't come back either!"

John turned his face so the little girl wouldn't see him retch. Yes. He was going to kill Mycroft. John's mind raced. He shrugged off his jacket, and wrapped it around the girl's shoulders. "This is my very favorite jacket. I'm going to leave it here with you, and I promise, I will come back for it... and for you. Can you keep it safe for me?" Through her tears the little girl nodded slightly, and grabbed John's hand tightly.

"Don't forget" the child whispered.

"I won't." John turned and ran from the room, so as not to cry in front of the girl.

Just across the hall stood a male orderly, tapping his foot impatiently. "Took you long enough." Without thought of consequence, John drew back and punched him square on the nose.

"Oops."

"You broke my nose!"

"You're walking away from a hospital fire. I think you'll be okay. Besides, your face was too clean for someone who's been trapped in a burning building. You grab the bedding at his legs, I'll take the shoulders!" John barked. The orderly wiped the tears from his eyes (which John noted were already bruising quite nicely), sniffed his crooked, bleeding nose, and complied with a huff. John wrapped the corners of the bedding at the head of the patient's bed around his hands, and the orderly followed his lead at the other end. The two men heaved the patient up and slowly worked their way to the corridor.

"Ok, Mycroft, where am I going?"

"Turn right out of that wing. Stay true. Approximately one hundred metres to the nearest exit." John felt relieved for the first time. Only one hundred metres. He and the orderly made their way slowly out to the main corridor, which was now completely enshrouded in smoke. John had no option but to take Mycroft's word as true, and they slowly picked their way forward. After what seemed an eternity, John could hear voices outside.

"We're almost there!" he shouted to the orderly. Suddenly John tripped over what had been the threshold of the door. The blast must have blown out the glass panes. John found himself thrust into daylight. He shouted, "Medic! Medic!" and soon his burden was lifted to a gurney, and a medic was applying pressure to the orderly's nose. John turned to duck back into the building when a firm grip clapped down on his arm and spun him around.

"Oh Greg, thank God, you're okay," John replied. "Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Of course he would be here too. No. I have not seen Sherlock."

A pit formed in John's stomach as he moved to re-enter the building. Where was Sherlock?

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded DI Lestrade.

"Greg, there are more in there. I know where they are. I can get them out." Lestrade had not yet released John's arm, and John was ready to do what needed to be done to break free. He'd already punched an orderly, and threatened the life of Mr. Government himself. Knocking out a detective would just be par for the course today.

"John, get rid of him. You need to hurry. You're running out of time!" Mycroft's unwelcome voice intruded on John's thoughts. Lestrade looked to the fire crews who were just now arriving. What had taken them so long anyway?

Releasing John's arm, Lestrade replied with some reluctance, "Fine. One more trip in. Then I'm sending in the fire crews, and you leave the heroics to them. You hear me? I _will_ have you arrested." John didn't take the time to respond, he sprinted back into the building. Recounting his steps, he stumbled along the wall until he found what he prayed was the door that would lead him to the waiting patients.

"John, you're taking too long. Do you think you can pull out both women at the same time?"

"Both?" John's mind reeled at the thought.

"It's either both at once, or leave one behind. Your choice."

John gritted his teeth. How did he get himself into this? And how did Mycroft expect him to ensure Sherlock's safety with these crazy time restraints?

He fumbled for the doorknob, and stumbled into the room that was rapidly filling with smoke. The patient was struggling to stand, gasping for air, but stand she did. She refused to abandon her post, and she continued to apply pressure to the nurse's wound.

"We have to get you both out of here. Now." John looked around the room, and seeing nothing to assist him with his task, pulled a pillow case from the linens, and soaked it in the sink. "Here, wrap this around your face for a mask. I'm going to crouch down, and you climb on my back." The woman hesitated, so John stepped to her, and helped her tie the mask on. He crouched down, and reluctantly, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hoisted herself up. John was stunned at how light she was. Her illness had not been kind to her. "Okay, hold on. Whatever you do, do _not_ let go!" John lifted the nurse in his arms with a grunt, and charged towards the door.

He had not considered the added effect of the smoke on his own lungs and eyes as he stumbled under the weight of his passengers. More slowly than last time John worked his way toward the exit. He had to pause and shift the weight of the nurse in his arms frequently.

"Are you okay?" whispered the trembling lady clinging to his shoulders. John wanted to respond but could only manage a grunt. This was a mistake. He felt he was getting ready to drop the woman in his arms, and he could feel the other woman's grip beginning to slip. John pressed on as hard as he could, and tripped over the broken threshold. His fall was stopped by the firefighter running into the building. Without a word, the firefighter took the nurse from John's arms, freeing John to swing the other woman up and carry her out to safety. Lestrade was waiting with a medic. As John handed off the woman he fell to his knees.

Air... He needed air. He was so tired… One more... He had to go back one more time.

Lestrade was in his face, "John, there's a medic here. They've got oxygen for you." John shoved the DI away, and sprinted towards the building.

Lestrade raced after him. "John Watson, you are under arrest. Stop now!" Lestrade yelled, followed by a string of curses as John re-entered the building, just out of reach. His mind was foggy, and he knew well his lungs couldn't take much more. He stumbled and crawled to the room of his last patient. Her room was completely filled with the thick smoke, and John could hear the fire crackling nearby.

"I'm here! I'm back!" John coughed. He crawled around the bed to the little girl, who had cocooned herself into his jacket, only her eyes and a shock of blonde hair peeked through the neck of the coat. John scooped her into his arms and his head spun as he stood up. Though wrapped in the jacket, the little girl shivered in his arms.

"John, you're out of time," Mycroft said softly.

"What? No! Please, let me get her to safety. Please, Mycroft."

The voice on the other end of the connection hesitated. "There is a crew out in the main hallway. Hand her to one of those men. He will take her to safety."

"Thank you," John mumbled.

"And in case you were wondering, Sherlock has been spotted out at the medic station with Miss Hooper."

John sighed with relief.

Mycroft continued, "It appears he has been demonstrating some concern for you. That's sweet. You should send him a trinket, something to remember you by."

"A trinket? Who am I, Mary Poppins? You have lost your mind haven't you?" John stumbled into the main hallway, and collided with one of Mycroft's men, conveniently disguised as a firefighter.

"Mr. Holmes instructed me to carry the girl to safety," the man said abruptly.

"Right. Right," John stammered as he relinquished the girl. He quickly pulled his wallet from his pocket and his watch from his wrist, and handed it to the little girl. "Can you give this to someone for me? Give it to a tall man with dark hair. His name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And tell him I said 'Vatican cameos.' Can you say that? 'Vatican cameos.' He will understand."

The little girl looked at John with tears in her eyes and nodded. "Vat- vatic-an cameos?"

"Good. Very good. Now you take very good care of those things, and you look after my jacket, okay?" John looked to the other man, "Now go. Hurry."

As the man ran towards the exit, John turned to observe the scene behind him. Mycroft's crew had pulled down a section of the ceiling into a heap. There appeared to be a man's body lying at the bottom of the pile.

"Mycroft, what am I looking at? And what is that smell?"

"Accelerant. We have to make sure this corridor is thoroughly destroyed. John Watson, this is where you die." John knew this was the end game, but the reality had not yet struck him.

"Who is it?"

"A John Doe who was set to be buried in a pauper's field. Similar build and body type. We altered your dental records to match him. With the accelerant, there should be nothing left to identify, but we took every precaution just in case."

"What a relief," John hoped his sarcasm was evident.

"Quite. Now, I need you to toss any personal effects into the pile with the body. Any pocket contents, keys, your gun."

"My gun?"

"Especially your gun. What doesn't melt will be easily identifiable, and further confirm your identity. Don't worry, John, you'll be provided a new weapon. I think you will be pleased."

"Great." John reluctantly emptied his pockets and tossed the contents onto the corpse of the other John Watson. He was relieved Mycroft had forced him to drop his phone outside. Certainly Sherlock would retrieve it. And he was glad he had sent his wallet out too. He really liked that wallet. Carefully placing his gun on the pile he stood and backed away as the crew continued arranging ceiling tiles and beams on top of the corpse.

"John, I have a man ready to escort you to the back of the building. There is a cargo bay, with a vehicle backed up to it. Enter the back of the vehicle, and you will be transported to your next destination. You might want to hurry. You have three minutes."

"Three minutes? Bloody hell." Suddenly another man dressed as a firefighter grabbed John by the arm and tugged him down the corridor.

"Uh, Mycroft, the hallway we're headed into is completely engulfed. Is there another way?"

"No John, I'm afraid not."

John and his escort looked at each other, and holding on to each other by the arm, broke into a sprint. The heat was unbearable, and the acrid smoke stole the very breath from John's lungs. As they ran, John could hear the structure creaking around them. "Mycroft, this hallway is about to collapse!" No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a beam came crashing down. John's escort pushed him out of the way, himself being pinned to the floor. "Your man is down, and I can't move the beam!" John shouted as he tried to leverage the other man free.

"Doctor Watson?" the trapped man spoke. "We're so close to the cargo bay. It's straight ahead. Please, go. You have to go."

"No way, I can't leave you here!"

"John, listen to the man. You have less than a minute. You're putting everyone in danger!"

John looked to the young man who had saved his life. "I'm so sorry." The other man nodded.

"Go."

John looked back one more time, and started jogging towards the waiting vehicle.

"Time," crackled Mycroft's voice. John started to sprint, but there was nothing to be done. The blast was one like John had never experienced before. He was thrown into a wall and slid to the floor, the heat from the blast enveloped him.

"John. Are you there?"

"I'm... I'm here." Mentally he assessed himself as he tried to stand, he cried out in pain. "Burns, not too severe. Broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder, the healthy one. Fantastic."

"Can you make it to the cargo bay?"

"Yes." John felt his way along the wall, the flash from the explosion had affected his vision, but that would be temporary. His ears were ringing, at least one eardrum was ruptured, and his equilibrium was off, but if he stayed against the wall he would be fine. He could faintly hear voices, and suddenly, he felt an opening in the wall and tumbled through into the waiting ambulance.

"An ambulance? How appropriate." John collapsed onto the gurney and gladly accepted the oxygen mask from the medic.

"Glad you could join us," one medic spoke up.

"Damn it, Mycroft. Why are you here?" John jumped to his feet, but losing his balance sat down quickly.

"Field work is so unbearable, but I had to ensure the safety of our asset," Mycroft gestured toward John. "Can we move along please? This building is not going to be standing for much longer!"

"Sir the crowd is too thick, I can't pull away from the building!" shouted the driver.

"Lights and sirens then!" The ambulance had just started pulling out, the doors still propped open, when the building released an unearthly moan and began to collapse in on itself. The open ambulance doors seemed to welcome the flying debris towards its passengers. John realized the danger before Mycroft's men did, and he threw himself on top of the elder Holmes brother. The driver finally gained an opening, and the ambulance lurched forward, slamming the doors, providing reprieve from the rush of dust and debris.

John couldn't move. Two men were piled on top of him, but there was something else wrong. "Mycroft... My…cr..." the vehicle spun around him.

"Get him on the gurney!" Mycroft shouted. John's side had been struck by a rather large, rather jagged, section of wooden beam. He would live, but Mycroft had not planned for this extensive recovery. "Well, this does change things a bit." Mycroft pulled out his mobile and appeared to be checking and sending texts.

"You're welcome," John responded dryly as the medics worked frantically to staunch the rapid blood flow from his side. John knew he should have been experiencing extremely high levels of pain, as the medication IV had only just been inserted. He was rapidly going into shock. "Not good. A bit not good," he mumbled to himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and, drawing on every ounce of training he could recall, fought to regulate his breathing. He had to stay awake, if for no other reason than he really did not trust Mycroft.

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably as his mobile began to ring. "Oh look, it's Sherlock. He must have learned of your fate by now," John thought Mycroft looked gleeful as he answered the phone.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Mycroft demanded.

"As if you don't know. I need you. Now."

"Little brother, I assure you your request is most impossible. With the events of the day, there is no way I can abandon my post now. Is it safe now to assume you have disposed of Moriarty?"

"You could say that..." Sherlock paused. "Mycroft, I need you. John is missing." Mycroft was motioning to the medics to make less noise. They were going to give everything away.

Mycroft broke his silence. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"He ran into the hospital... he was trying to save a little girl..."

"The fool. Don't I always say, what good does it do to care? If he was so stupid as to..." John thought he could hear Sherlock's disdain as the call was disconnected.

"Well, that was rude!" Mycroft feigned insult.

"Hasn't anyone ever taught you to respect the deceased?" John laughed bitterly. He caught the expression on Mycroft's face. What was that look? Empathy? Regret? When Mycroft realized he was being watched, his features hardened, and he pulled a briefcase from a cubby.

"Unfortunately, I was incorrect. Sherlock appears to currently be in a state of denial. He's still holding out hope that his brave doctor could have survived that explosion. Hmm. I fear the realization of your untimely demise may actually trigger an emotional response. Interesting, I hadn't planned on that," Mycroft mused out loud.

"Sherlock." John whispered the name. The thought of Sherlock searching for him caused great conflicting emotions. That Sherlock Holmes would care enough about him to search for him, and to know that the consulting detective thought highly enough of his abilities to credit him with escaping the fire, caused John to blush in humility. But his heart broke as he realized that Sherlock, despite exhausting himself and his resources, would never find him there. Mycroft was correct. All too soon there would be an emotional response in one form or another, and it would be all John's fault.

John looked at Mycroft. Caring little about the sobs that threatened to escape his throat, John groaned, "What have I done?"

Mycroft appeared taken aback. At a loss for words, he hesitated and cleared his throat. Finally, his voice thick with emotion, came his careful answer. "You saved his life."

The men remained in silent introspection for several moments as the medics worked to stabilize John. The problem with fighting off the shock was that he was now in great physical pain. Honestly, every inch of his body, from head to foot, screamed in agony. But he had never experienced pain like the agony of his heart being torn to shreds as the ambulance hurled him farther and farther from his life, his home, and Sherlock.

Mycroft tapped a short cadence on his briefcase. "John, the one thing Sherlock requested for you, had we followed 'Lazarus' to completion, was that you be provided for. I was to offer to reinstate your military credentials, and offer to assign you to a London medical base. Your stipend was to be supplemented from his own accounts." John drew in a sharp breath. He hadn't even considered the alternate outcome.

"As you can imagine, I can't allow you to remain in London, or England for that matter. Sherlock will already be suspicious when there are no remains to be identified."

"Obviously." John rolled his eyes and wondered if Mycroft even knew his brother at all. There was no conceivable scenario John could imagine where Sherlock would rest until he had all the answers. It was entirely possible Sherlock was in a black cab tailing them at this very moment.

"I'm glad you agree. Of course, we hadn't considered you sustaining, ah, injuries..." Mycroft paused, "For which I do sincerely apologize. And, hmm... yes. I thank you." John nodded, choosing to remain silent, so as not to prolong Mycroft's misery. Maybe he wouldn't punch him just yet.

"The medics have made it clear we ought not wait to have you treated, so we are taking you to the military hospital now. You will be cared for quickly, and privately, with only the most necessary of staff even being aware of your presence. From there you will be airlifted to another military base to receive any further medical care and any rehabilitation. We can arrange to have your sister meet you there if you so choose."

Harry. John had weighed his options heavily. He didn't want her to get caught up in this. If she knew he was alive, what would stop her from trying to contact him? And what would stop Sherlock from monitoring her every movement? "No. She shouldn't know."

"Is there anyone else, John?"

"No one." John was certain he read empathy on Mycroft's face this time. "One question... I'm going to a military base?"

"Right. Calling in a few favors, I got your status returned to active, and based on your prior service and commendations, you were due a promotion. Congratulations, Major Watson."

"Major?" John was stunned. "Mycroft, I..."

Mycroft, not one to linger on sentiment, interrupted, "The new rank affords you more comfortable accommodations, easier access to medical care, an increase financially, and command of a unit once you are recovered."

"I see," John nodded. "And where exactly am I going?"

"There is a rather large operation in Kandahar."

"Afghanistan? Are you kidding me? With the Americans?" The urge to punch Mycroft had returned. "Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it. No thank you."

"It's a NATO center of operations. As far as red tape is concerned, it's a nightmare. We can get you in, count on them to lose the paperwork, and when you're recovered no one will even know you were there."

John grunted. Mycroft was right. Kandahar was an organized man's greatest fear. It was perfect. "And then?"

"This is the part I think you will enjoy. Once you are recovered, I've arranged a special unit. I know you've become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, one of danger and intrigue, in the company of my brother. You will, of course, have command over this unit. You will be stationed as a security detail for the English Consulate in Astana, Kazakhstan..."

"Security detail? Seriously? I thought..."

"Let me finish. You will be responsible for the security of the Consulate, the Ambassador, and his staff. But the unit that I have selected is comprised of specialists. We have a great deal of intelligence that passes through Kazakhstan. I will direct the items that need to be, ah, _dealt with_ immediately, to your attention, and your unit will be dispatched to neutralize the threat. Your operations will be classified at a level higher than even MI6. Does this offer appeal to you, or would you prefer a desk somewhere quiet?"

John could not believe what he was hearing. The assignment was too good to be true. But as compelling as it was, his heart weighed heavy. "I'm honored Mycroft. Of course I will accept. Just... this isn't permanent is it? I will get to come home, right? When Sherlock is finished with Moriarty's network, and his name is cleared, I can come home?"

"John, when has death ever not been permanent?"

"But, I'm not dead!" John shoved the medics aside and sat up. The world tilted around him and his vision went slightly more blurry as he fought to regain composure. "Do you mean to tell me that I agreed to a one way ticket? You may hate me, Mycroft, but that is low, even for you!"

"I cannot make any promises."

"Well I can. When you least expect it, you better be sure I will make my position known to Sherlock."

"And the instant you try, you will be arrested for treason, face court martial, and be thrown into prison for the rest of your life. Do not toy with me. No contact, John. None. He cannot know you are alive. Not until the task at hand is completed, however long that may be."

He was, by all accounts, dead. Yet here he sat, mostly alive (though his body would protest that point), and he could no longer imagine his life without Sherlock Holmes.

"And what if he connects the dots? What if he figures out that _you_ detonated those bombs... that _you_ killed me?"

"Do you truly believe that my brother is able to outwit me? I so completely pointed the evidence to Moriarty's men, even if you were to contact Sherlock, he wouldn't believe it was truly you. He's not as smart as you believe him to be."

John's anger threatened to spill over at any moment. "When Sherlock is finished, you bring me home," John growled.

Mycroft sighed. "I will do my best. Now, it appears we have arrived. A doctor is waiting to see you immediately. One last thing... in this packet are your credentials, your identification tags, and a bank card with an account already set up for you."

"I suppose my alias is in here too?"

"Ha!" Mycroft's laugh dripped with derision. "Are you aware how common the name John Watson is? When this fact was made known to me, I didn't bother to have your name changed. No one will be the wiser. Just don't go around telling people about that ridiculous middle name! I mean really, John Watson is probably the most mundane name in the history of names! Quite fitting, actually. I..." Mycroft was cut short by John's left hook landing cleanly on his jaw. If John's right shoulder hadn't been dislocated, the blow would have knocked him out. It was a fact John had prided himself on. Despite his left hand being dominant, after he'd been shot, he relied on his right arm for combat. Until now it had never failed him.

"And that was my _bad_ arm. So long, Mycroft." John snatched the packet from the stunned dignitary, shoved his way past the medics, and stumbled through the ambulance doors. The pain was excruciating, and the motion of the punch had caused his wound to bleed heavily, but he would not show Mycroft Holmes weakness. He couldn't stand down now. If he hoped to ever make it home, he had to stick to the plan.

"Okay Sherlock, it's all up to you now," John said under his breath as a team of fatigue clad nurses forced him to a gurney and wheeled him into the surgery.


	4. Rend: A Wound Reopened

***AUTHOR'S NOTE***

I'm splitting this part into two chapters because it's getting to be quite the monstrosity.

* * *

The scrape of a key as someone fumbled at the front door pierced the silence and pulled the consulting detective's attention from the notebook he studied. Clearly this unwelcome intrusion was not someone with malicious intent; Sherlock Holmes knew well the sound of a lock being picked. The visitor would not be Mycroft, as his entrance would be silent and unexpected. Sherlock checked the time. 2:13 AM. Mrs. Hudson had retired several hours ago.

Only one other person had a key.

Sherlock sat silently, listening intently with a smug sneer on his face. Lestrade fancied himself light on his feet, but his approach up to the flat presented every evidence to the contrary. Sherlock heard every creak of every floor board. He rolled his eyes in disgust as he heard the DI trip on a step, then utter a string of curses. It was clear the man was attempting to be quiet so as not to disturb the slumbering landlady downstairs. He was failing miserably.

After a quick knock on the door, Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped into the sitting room, bringing with him the bone chilling dampness of a bleak London night. A heavy sigh bore the weight of the day; his countenance was one of sheer exhaustion. Sherlock thought perhaps the word haggard was appropriate. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, and the stubble on his face was at least in its second day of growth. The DI dropped his soggy hat onto the coffee table, and shrugged off his still dripping coat. Sherlock noted the care with which Lestrade pulled a chair away from the table upon which to drape his coat. It was John's preferred perch. He made sure no errant moisture made its way to the stacks of papers and notebooks the good doctor had left behind in his death, and that no sudden motion disturbed the makeshift shrine.

The weary visitor sat gingerly in the armchair across from Sherlock. _John's chair,_ the sentimental (maddeningly so, at times) part of Sherlock's brain supplied, entirely unsolicited. Greg toed off his soaked shoes without untying them, and placed them on the fireplace hearth. He stretched his legs out straight in front of him, pointing his frozen feet toward the fire, revealing the legs of his trousers to be drenched and mud spattered up to his knees. As he leaned back and sunk into the chair, he groaned and covered his face with both hands. Sherlock watched the now familiar, and exceptionally tedious, ritual with resigned interest.

It had been five months since James Moriarty had arranged for Saint Bartholomew's to be blown up (according to the physical evidence, though there were still details that troubled and eluded Sherlock), not to mention killing himself just for the sake of escaping his boredom. Five months of DI Lestrade attempting to become _friend_ Greg. Five months. _Only five_ months since John Watson had been ripped from his life. Five months since Moriarty had killed his best friend, a final, unexpected, _uncharacteristic_ , though successful, attempt to deliver on the promise that he would burn the heart right out of Sherlock Holmes.

It felt as though it had been an eternity since he had last shared a moment with his friend. Yet some days Sherlock would go about his day without thinking of John's absence once, fully anticipating the moment the doctor would return from the surgery so they could resume work on a case. It always seemed to take too many hours for the realization to dawn. Those days, despite himself, Sherlock was thankful Lestrade... _Greg_ \- the man who had helped him through the other darkest period of his life - had promised to be a friend, to be present for him, to remind him that needles and vials did not provide answers, and to assist him in destroying the criminal network of the man responsible for killing John.

The first time Lestrade dropped by uninvited and attempted to make himself comfortable (he had dared to hang his coat on the hook where John's coat had once hung, and then had the audacity to adjust the Union Jack cushion before sitting in John's armchair), Sherlock had suffered a few moments of complete loss of control, cursing and hurling insults, not to mention books and anything else within reach. How _dare_ he attempt to take John's place? Over time though Sherlock grew to appreciate the company, and slowly realized Lestrade was not attempting to _replace_ John.

Quite the contrary.

Lestrade respected John's legacy so deeply, he took great efforts to preserve the sanctity of the good doctor's influence in Sherlock's life. Lestr... Greg... had also proven he was not nearly as dull as Sherlock had originally deduced him to be, and he had become a worthy accomplice. He was no John Watson - Sherlock suspected no one would ever live up to the standard set by his late friend - but if he had to rely on another human being, he was grateful that Greg had offered to step into the void.

Once he could tell the DI had calmed down, his body had relaxed noticeably and his breathing had evened out, though his face remained buried in his hands, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Tea?"

Dropping his hands to the arms of the chair, Greg sighed. "I don't suppose you have anything a bit stronger? I don't think tea will cut it tonight."

"If you mean alcohol, no, my apologies, I have none on hand. A rather pressing experiment required the last of my supply. However, if you'd prefer," He pulled his mobile from his pocket, "I can have something significantly less legal available within just a few moments…" Sherlock cut his offer short when he noticed Greg had once again covered his face with his hands. "I'll take that as a no."

"How about coffee? Do you have any coffee?" Greg asked. "I'll even make it." He sat up more fully in the chair.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I believe so. I don't drink it often, but John always keeps some…" Sherlock realized his slip the same moment Greg did. It had been weeks since he had spoken of John in the present. He thought he had finally rid himself of the annoying error that only seemed to make him feel small and awkward, cause Mrs. Hudson to cry, or, as the case was now, force Greg to use deep breathing techniques. " _Kept_ ," he corrected himself with a cough, "John always _kept_ coffee… For late nights and for the clients who prefer it over tea."

Embarrassed by his mistake, Sherlock rose swiftly from his chair and stepped to the kitchen. "I'll make the coffee, though I cannot promise it will be palatable."

"I just need to warm up. Besides, I don't know that anything could be any worse than what the guys make in the break room at the Yard." Greg replied with a yawn. "And try not to drug it, yeah?" Sherlock scoffed in response.

After much searching for the coffee, _of course John would have made space for it in the cupboard right above the coffee maker_ , and a brief internet tutorial on how to work this particular model of coffee maker, the steaming brown liquid began to trickle into the carafe. "Do you take sugar or milk?" Sherlock asked. He noted by the way Greg's posture straightened that the DI was surprised by the question. It was true, Sherlock had not made a habit of getting to know details about Greg. He hadn't even made an effort to recall his name before _that day_ at the hospital. But after John's death, and the realization that there was so very much he did not know about the man he called his best friend, Sherlock acknowledged the unpleasant task of being courteous, and engaging in meaningful conversation, had its advantages.

"Uhm, no. Just black is fine, thanks," Greg responded, as he settled back into the chair.

 _Just like John,_ Sherlock thought. Mentally shaking himself from reverie, Sherlock returned to the task at hand, making coffee for his... _friend_? Yes, friend. As the stream of coffee slowed to a drip, Sherlock reached for a mug. The one nearest the coffee maker was the striped one John had always used for his own coffee. He couldn't bring himself to allow anyone else to enjoy it. Not yet. He left the mug to stand as sentinel over the workspace (John's RAMC mug held a place of reverence on the mantel in the sitting room, next to the skull; Sherlock had put it up out of harm's way when he realized, _almost_ too late, that he had nearly hurled the precious vessel at Greg's head) and retrieved the mug John always used for clients. He chided himself for this ridiculous sentimentality that leeched into his consciousness, muddying his daily thought processes, as he poured the coffee and returned to the sitting room.

John would surely mock him.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Would these incessant, nagging, maudlin intrusion of emotion into his mind never cease?

"Mhm. Not bad," Greg nodded as he sipped the steaming coffee. "Definitely better than the break room. The next time you're at the Yard, I'm putting you on coffee detail." He wrapped his hands around the cup for warmth, and leaned back once more.

"Greg?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Please understand, for once I intend absolutely no offense in asking this, but, _why_ are you here? Other than the obvious fact that your stakeout went poorly, and the suspect evaded your officers _yet again._ "

Exhaling deeply, Greg shifted in the armchair to sit up straight. "Sherlock, I really need your help with this one. It... it happened. Again."

" _It?_ " Sherlock over enunciated the _t_ with a snap, for emphasis. He was certain he knew what the _it_ was, but the fact that Greg's officers could allow such a heinous crime to occur in their very presence gave him pause.

His expression one of defeat, Greg closed his eyes and nodded his confirmation. "Another shop owner was killed during an armed robbery tonight."

"You were there! You had officers in the store!" Sherlock was aware that his tone was both condescending and shrill.

"I know," Greg hung his head, his voice thick with emotion. "I know, Sherlock. Which is why I need you on this. He's smart. And getting bolder by the day. And…"

Sherlock raised his hand to silence the detective. "Are you suggesting that I step away from my current task of dismantling the most far reaching international crime network in the world, not to mention bringing to justice the men responsible for killing John, because you and your officers are so incompetent as to let a thief on a killing spree slip through your fingers, despite having his identification and knowing where he's going to strike next?"

"Sherlock, wait a minute," Greg began.

"No. Did he or did he not make his appearance at 9:35 earlier this evening?"

"He did," Greg nodded.

"Did he, or did he not, empty the register, leave the safe untouched, and then shoot the store owner in the chest?" Sherlock condescended.

"He did," Greg hung his head once more.

"Did you not have undercover officers on the scene once it was determined the killer was only striking when the actual business owner was working alone in the shop?"

"We did. But Sherlock…"

"Do you not," Sherlock interrupted, "have security camera footage from each location, clearly showing the suspect's face? And have you not identified the man?" Sherlock was growing increasingly agitated.

The case couldn't be any clearer. The criminal had practically gift wrapped himself for law enforcement, yet had successfully robbed four shops, all located in one tight-knit neighborhood, and had killed all four owners, who were also very active members of the community. The businesses varied, so far he had hit a family owned market, a small café, and a florist. This evening's disastrous attempt to put an end to his criminal career concluded with the armed robbery of a twenty-four hour pagoda, and the slaying of the beloved proprietor.

The thief-turned-murderer grew up in the neighborhood, and had a history of troubled behavior. His family no longer resided there, but many residents recognized him immediately. He had started his spree on the most prominent corner in the neighborhood, and was simply working his way down the main street, like a sadistic game of connect the dots.

Greg looked up, and Sherlock noted the color had drained from his face. His words had been harsh, but he didn't have time to waste on such simple cases. That Greg missed his opportunity to arrest the murderer was of little consequence to Sherlock. Rather, it was yet another indictment against the effectiveness of the Met as a whole.

"Sherlock, I think…" Greg took a deep breath, "this might be one of the guys you're after. More likely, he's not working alone, but as part of a team... Or someone is giving orders..."

Unable to contain himself, Sherlock laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. "You cannot be serious."

"Please, hear me out," Greg pleaded. "When the suspect appeared out of nowhere, robbed the place and shot the owner, my officers were stunned. They were taken completely by surprise. He ducked into the office behind the front register, and by the time the officers should have caught up to him, he had vanished. There are no stairwells, no windows, nothing."

"Obvious," Sherlock snorted.

"No, Sherlock, not to everyone." Greg pulled out his mobile, and showed Sherlock a photograph of a ceiling tile that was slightly askew, "The forensics guys missed this. I was desperate. I stayed after they left. I think he came and went through the roof."

Sherlock blinked in surprise, " _You_ found that? Well done, Greg."

"Yeah, thanks," Greg shrugged uncomfortably. "There's more though. The bullet used to kill the victim this evening was the same caliber as the first three, but instead of remaining lodged in the body, it passed clean through. The bullets are the same, but the weapon has been upgraded."

"He's robbed three other stores; he purchased a new weapon, or stole one." Sherlock was losing his patience again.

"Because of the time of day that he robbed the stores, at the end of a shift, the bank deposits had been prepared for the next day, and so each till netted him only a few hundred each. The new weapon appears to be a semiautomatic; the black market value of such a weapon would be several thousand." Greg sipped his now tepid coffee and grimaced. "It is possible he stole one; since they are illegal to own, no one would be stupid enough to report it missing. More likely though, the weapon was provided for him, which means someone has to be, at the very least, funding him. He's getting quicker, and smarter. I do think he's answering to orders and following directions."

"You may think you are helping your case of enticing me to join you, but in reality you are doing quite the opposite. By presenting the new information you've gathered, you have proven to me that you are in fact more competent than I originally suspected, and I am now more convinced than ever that my assistance would be of little help to you and your officers." With that, Sherlock picked up the folder he had tossed aside, flipped to a well-worn page, and held the packet in such a way as to block Greg from his sight.

"Sherlock," Greg sounded near desperate now.

"Stay as long as you like, _Graham._ You can finish off the coffee, but please, don't interrupt me."

Greg rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and with a huff of frustration blurted out, "All four of the victims were John's patients."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and it took him a moment to collect his composure. He had never been so glad to have something to hide behind. He slowly lowered the folder until he and Greg were staring at each other.

"John… He was a doctor. He worked at that dull surgery. He had patients. A lot of them," Sherlock stammered. "What does John have to do with any of this?" Even as he said the words, he was afraid to know the answer. A hundred scenarios ran through his mind, and all of them ended with the deceased man's name being mangled and dragged through the mud. He would never allow such a travesty to happen.

"I asked Molly to examine the body of our most recent victim, and to review the notes from the previous three, just to make sure we were on the right track with the weapon. In reviewing the medical records of all four men, she noted that all four had had their last two yearly physical examinations signed off by John. I suppose that much is not so remarkable." Greg toyed with the handle of his coffee mug.

"After I discovered the loose ceiling tile in the office, I moved out into the main part of the store, and was giving everything another look, when I saw this hanging on the wall behind the register. It was in plain sight. How I missed it, I have no idea." Greg pulled up another photo on his mobile and handed the phone to Sherlock.

Staring back at Sherlock were several smiling faces, the most prominent, at least in Sherlock's mind, was that of one Doctor John H. Watson. "Wha… w-what is this? When was this taken?" Sherlock stared at the photo. Somewhere in his logical mind he knew he should be studying all the faces, but there was only one face he cared about. _That_ face.

Enlarging the photo to focus on his friend, Sherlock deduced John. Pride. Joy. Excitement. His eyes looked so alive. Happy. His posture was one of accomplishment. But he wasn't dressed as Sherlock was used to seeing him. John wore a bright yellow t-shirt that was stained and covered with paint, and equally filthy well worn denims. And was John wearing work boots? He held a pair of grimy work gloves in one hand. Finally Sherlock focused on the whole group. A dozen adults, varied in age, but all dressed in matching filthy clothes.

Sherlock looked up to see Greg watching him. "What is this?" he demanded again.

"I wasn't sure myself. The photograph is framed, hanging on the wall with several other framed documents and a few other photos, but next to this one, taped directly on the wall, were two newspaper clippings. The first was John's obituary." Greg paused and took a shuddering breath. "The other one was a write up about a massive neighborhood cleanup project the residents undertook, trying to drive away the crime that had taken over their streets. Simple things like cleaning up the outsides of the homes and businesses, clearing out the alleys so that criminals would have no place to hide, turning an abandoned lot into a park and community garden. But the main project appears to have been a small clinic set up in an old storefront building. It appears the project was headed up by our friend there," Greg motioned to his mobile, still in Sherlock's hand.

"What?" Sherlock swallowed hard. "How long ago was this? It couldn't have been while he was living here."

"That's what I thought too. But then I recalled a case I responded to not quite two years ago in this same neighborhood. It was a completely different place back then. And…" Greg trailed off. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they were filled with sorrow. "Sherlock, John was with me when I responded to that call."

" _What_?" Sherlock jumped to his feet and loomed over Greg, surprising them both with the outburst. "How? Why?" For some reason beyond comprehension he was not able to articulate his thoughts, so he focused his laser exact glare at Greg in exasperation.

"I looked back through my case notes from that day, and it appears that John had seen a patient... a, uhm, child who he suspected was being abused. The child was a repeat patient, and when he mentioned something to the caregiver, the individual in question grew agitated and began threatening John and the surgery where he was working at the time. He came by my office after his shift to show me the file. We were discussing his options…"

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted. "Why would he go to you? No, don't get defensive. I know you are an officer of the law. But why would he not say something to me? Especially if he were in danger?" He began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace.

"Ah, I had a note about that too. It seems he _had_ called you during his lunch hour, but you were too busy to be interrupted. Mycroft needed you to run one of his errands. You told him you would be back in a few days, and disappeared completely." Greg rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. "You know, pretty standard _you,_ especially for the early days of John living here."

" _Damn Mycroft_ " Sherlock grumbled as he threw himself into his chair and slumped down low.

"Where were you, anyway?" Cocking an eyebrow, Greg stifled a chuckle at the sheer petulance before him.

With a roll of his eyes Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "Two years ago? That would have been Peru... by way of North Korea..."

"Hold on..." Greg held up a hand and stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "Peru by way of North Korea? Those two countries don't have any dealing with each other. _Do_ they? God. What were you doing?"

"Ah... There was some... _Correspondence_... A, uhm tryst, or, more a dalliance really..."

"A _tryst_? What sort of errands does Mycroft send you on?" Greg's frown was one of repulsion.

"Do you _finally_ understand why I am loathe to find myself indebted to my brother?" Sherlock dropped his hands to the arms of his chair and his dark expression softened into one of contemplation. "Though that was the first case I encountered the very specific expertise of Irene Adler."

" _Adler..._ The dominatrix?" Nearly choking on a mouthful of cold coffee, Greg wrinkled his nose in mutual disgust and stood to refill his cup.

Sherlock hummed his confirmation. "I didn't meet her until much later. When John and I..." _The case. Focus on the case._ "Right. Catastrophe averted. Didn't end well for her. Back to the task at hand." With a dismissive wave of his hand (which did nothing to allay the weight that settled little by little in the pit of his gut with each reminder of John), Sherlock sat upright and tapped his foot impatiently. "You were telling me about responding to a crime scene with Jo... in this same neighborhood?"

Taking a sip of coffee, Greg took his seat in Joh... the armchair once more. "Right. Residents had reported seeing a dead body in an alleyway. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious, the body just sort of turned up. In the middle of the day." Greg took another sip and rolled his eyes at the incompetence, drawing a smirk from Sherlock. "I offered to let John ride along, since he had nothing going on with you out, thinking he might be able to offer some sort of medical insight. And at the worst, it would really just annoy Anderson, who had been especially trying that day." Sherlock chuckled.

"We arrived just after the medics. The constables who were first on the scene were reporting what they had encountered to Sally and me, and John had wandered over to watch the medics work when they realized the body was a teenage girl, and she wasn't just a body. She'd been assaulted, in _every_ sense of the word." The color had once again drained from Greg's face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Left for dead, but not actually dead. The constables reported that no one had been around when they arrived. The neighbors who called, they just... They didn't check to see if... They just..." Greg flushed with anger. "God. John was furious. _Irate._ I thought I was going to have to restrain him. By that time a small crowd had gathered at the end of the alley, finally someone was paying attention, and John charged after them, screaming about the sanctity of life, and _how dare you,_ and so on, when an older man stepped out from the crowd and directly into John's face. I took one look at Sally and we both set off at a sprint. I thought for certain there were going to be fists, but then John just _stopped._ "

" _Stopped?_ " Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and scrutinizing every line and twitch of Greg's face.

"Stopped. The other man said something, it was so soft I couldn't hear. John nodded, and then apologized. He _apologized._ The guy put his arm around John's shoulders and led him off. He didn't even look back, but I could tell he was emotional. Very nearly wrecked." Greg and Sherlock stared at each other a moment, Greg allowing Sherlock an opportunity to let this distressing information settle. With a faint nod from Sherlock, Greg continued. "I found him later at a pub just down the street. The man from the street, an Iain McFadden, and his wife Moira, own the place. Apparently they're old family friends. Knew John's parents, or grandparents, or some such..." Greg waved his hand dismissively, a near perfect emulation of Sherlock's earlier gesture. "They hadn't seen him since his early army days. Iain was outright bragging on John, telling tall tales to anyone who would listen, and Moira was attempting to make up for several years of not feeding John up. It was... Amazing. They clearly adored him. Did he ever mention them to you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He shook his head and looked away. "No. No he never mentioned anyone by that name." _Why._ Why hadn't John told him? He knew John's parents were deceased, though John never discussed the details. Sherlock had deduced much of what happened, and then confirmed everything with a bit of light hacking. But it sounded as if this Iain and Moira had been quite important to John. Why wouldn't he have mentioned them? Why wouldn't he have told Sherlock about any of this?

Or had he?

Sherlock frowned as the heaviness in his gut from earlier spilled over into his chest, making it hard to breathe. Had John told him about his childhood? Had he ignored John (as John had so frequently accused him)? Or worse, had he heard the information and at some point deleted it? He had no recollection of deleting any information about John's past. He _thought_ he had been very thorough in his collection and storage of all things John.

"Sherlock. _Sherlock, stop._ " Leaning forward, Greg had placed a hand on Sherlock's knee in order to break through his mental descent. Sherlock had only just brought his hands up to his head, instinctively reacting to the mounting ache of opportunities missed, before Greg had startled him back to the present. "Sherlock..."

"Greg, I..." Dropping his hands back to his lap, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a few deliberate breaths. "I'm sorry, Greg. Please continue." He leaned back in his chair and finally opened his eyes, only to see concern etched across his friend's face.

"Right." Greg stood and headed to the kitchen.

Sherlock heard the kettle being filled and switched on. The clink of ceramic. Rattle of a drawer. The refrigerator door being opened. A groan and then the carton of week old milk being emptied and binned. It was all so familiar. Deceptively calming. _It's Greg. It's just Greg. Greg. Not John._ Not _John. Greg._

"Greg." Sherlock joined Greg in the kitchen, and leaned against the door frame as they waited for the tea to steep.

"Sherlock, I need your help with this case. This is... These people knew John. They loved him. And, they need help." Greg's face looked grim.

"When is the next hit supposed to be?"

"In two nights. And these people are stubborn. The owners won't even consider altering their hours, or having extra staff on hand. It's..." Greg chuckled despite himself. "It's no wonder John got on with them so well. Stubborn fools. The lot of them."

Sherlock stared into the mug Greg handed him. "How near to being victimized are the McFaddens?"

"Third in line after tonight." Greg put his mug down on the table. "And I'll not let that happen. Even if it kills me. Help me or not, Sherlock, but these are John's people, and..."

"I'll help." It was barely a whisper.

"Good. That's... _Good._ I'm glad." Greg nodded. He picked up his tea and returned to the sitting room, Sherlock followed close behind.

"Did you solve that assault case? The girl in the alley?"

"Uhm, no. She didn't see her attacker's face, he had his face painted, and nobody else noticed anything. No DNA matches. No CCTV. The neighborhood was such a mess back then, people stayed to themselves just to avoid trouble."

"If the man committing these current murders is from that neighborhood, and if he follows the pattern of other criminals before him, there is a distinct possibility we may solve your cold case when we catch this man in two days." Sherlock had settle back into his chair. The warmth of the mug in his hands grounded him, and he was able to turn his mind back to the task at hand.

With a consenting hum, Greg took a long drink of his tea.

"There's something else." Sherlock leaned forward, staring at Greg with laser focus. "What else? What haven't you told me? There's something else... Some new element. More than just the murderer's new gun."

With a trembling hand, Greg motioned to his mobile where Sherlock had placed it on the arm of his chair. Sherlock handed it over, anticipation getting the better of him.

"This is... It's new. Tonight was the first. This showed up on the front of the pagoda that was robbed earlier, on the front windows of the next target, and..." Greg blanched. "On the front of the clinic." He flipped through the photos on his mobile, and went still. When he looked back up Sherlock noticed that it wasn't just Greg's hands that were trembling any longer. He reached across and pried the mobile away from Greg only to drop the phone himself as soon as he saw the picture.

"What..." Sherlock flipped through the photos once again. And then three more times to be certain. _Graffiti. Yellow. Familiar yellow. Michigan hardcore propellant._ The message sprayed on the windows caused the world to tilt just slightly off its axis.

 **BRING ME JOHN WATSON**


	5. Rend: Bleeding Out

"Sherlock, I need you to just... Stay." There was a sense of urgency in the way Greg, positioned at the mouth of the alley and scanning the street and storefronts for movement, flapped his hand back behind him, indicating the necessity for Sherlock to just... stay. _Stay back. Stay close. Stay out of trouble damn it._

"Why am I here?" Greg jumped and put his hand to his holstered weapon as he spun around to face Sherlock, who had stepped, unnoticed, directly behind the DI in order to grumble his complaint.

Gasping, Greg scrubbed his free hand over his face. "God, Sherlock. What the hell?" A few tense moments passed with the two men blinking at each other in silence before Greg realized he still had his hand on his weapon. He let his arm fall limp to his side with another sigh. "I _could_ have killed you."

"Please. You're a mediocre marksman at best, which is inconsequential, really; if I were the murderer, you'd have been dead before you even turned around. Besides, we know where he's going to be." Sherlock gestured broadly to the bookstore across the street. "Which brings us back to my question. If you're not going to allow me to be where your suspect is going to present himself, in precisely one hour and twelve minutes, then _why am I here?_ "

"I have _no idea_ why you're here, Sherlock! I begged you to stay at Baker Street, didn't I?" Greg had lowered his voice to gruff whisper as he turned his attention back to the street.

"You're the one who said you needed my help with this case. I'm here. Let me help." Sherlock, maintaining a conversational volume out of sheer defiance, positioned himself directly in front of Greg and poked him in the middle of his chest with two fingers. "Or are you prepared for your incompetent undercover officers to allow your man to literally get away with murder once more?"

"Look," Greg smacked Sherlock's hand away, grabbed the front of his coat, and shoved him back into the relative cover of the alley. "I needed your help identifying potential entrance and exit routes he could take. Which you found because of your obsessive knowledge of the tunnels and passageways that run under the city."

"It's truly laughable that someone in your position _isn't_ more familiar with the infrastructure of the city you're charged with protecting." Sherlock huffed with disdain.

Ignoring the interruption, Greg pressed on. "And I'm going to need your help getting him to talk, sorting out what all of this means. What I _don't_ need is your help getting yourself, or someone else, killed just because you've got nothing else on at the moment."

A shadow of grief, unguarded and undiluted, slipped over Sherlock's face as his breath faltered and he took half a halted step back, allowing Greg an abrupt glimpse of the ache and loneliness that lay buried, hidden under the pretentious-cavalier-genius facade. Mere seconds and it was gone; sharp features schooled into contempt. A heartbeat too late and Greg knew what he had said. Worse, he knew what had been heard. Remorse pooled in his gut. "Sherlock, I didn't mean it. _You know_ I didn't mean it. I'm sorry... It's just I'm under so much pressure to end this tonight. The Chief Superintendent is breathing down my neck. And the bloody media... And I just... Sherlock, please. I'm sorry."

"You. _You_ know..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg. "You know I didn't want to work on this case. I did everything but throw you out of my flat, and even that was a near thing. But then you..." Having started a frantic pace back and forth across the width of the narrow alley, Sherlock paused long enough to direct an accusatory gesture at Greg. At the slight tremor of the nimble hand, Sherlock broke eye contact and cupped his hands in front of his mouth huffing a breath, pretending to warm them. He dropped his arms to his sides and continued his agitated pacing. " _You_ made this about... Something else. You dragged sentiment into it. You... _He_..." Sherlock nodded toward the bookstore, indicating the murderer, "made this about John. Made it personal. And you knew I wouldn't stay away. _He_ knew I wouldn't stay away. Why? _Why._ "

Palms raised in a show of frustrated imploring, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt in front of Greg. His traitorous nerves got the best of him, and the tremor in his hand returned. _Damn._ Damn _it. How did John live with... Stop. Counterproductive. Weak. Stupid. Stop. Just stop._ _ **Damn it.**_ "Greg..."

Sherlock shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the hideous Mackintosh raincoat he'd opted to wear in an attempt to _blend in_ with his surroundings. God he missed the Belstaff; he felt as if he'd come to the front lines without his battle armour. Add to that the emotional upheaval of this case, and Sherlock felt stripped bare. Uncomfortably, uncharacteristically exposed. It was foreign. Disorienting. He hated it.

"I don't know. _I don't know_ , Sherlock. I have no idea what this bastard's game is." Greg fished a half packet of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out to Sherlock.

Humming an acknowledgement, Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you. I quit. Again." He tugged his left sleeve up to reveal two nicotine patches.

Huffing a laugh, Greg deftly tipped a cigarette from the pack and put it to his lips. "Me too. Again," he mumbled around the cigarette. He cursed and fumbled with the disposable lighter he'd picked up at the pagoda earlier that evening. It took four tries, and once he finally got his cigarette lit he considered chucking the awful thing into the skip, but thought better of it. Just in case.

"He's predictable." Sherlock's pronouncement was so unexpected, yet so matter-of-fact, Greg chuckled before he could think better of it.

"Not _really._ " Greg gave Sherlock an incredulous sidelong look, flicked his cigarette, and checked the time. "I mean, sure, we know when and where he's going to hit. But there are too many other variables. And then he suddenly escalated things last time 'round." Snapping his collar up more tightly around his neck, Greg looked up at the night sky and groaned as the rain started in earnest. "Well, that's another hat ruined." After another sweeping glance up and down the street, he turned back to Sherlock and pointed at the bookstore with the cigarette between his fingers. "He's unstable. And that makes him incredibly dangerous."

With a roll of his eyes Sherlock pulled the ridiculous hood on his coat over his head and grumbled as he tugged on the drawstrings. When Greg smirked at his displeasure, Sherlock reached out, quickly snatched the half spent cigarette from between his fingers, and pulled a long drag. He savored the warmth and the nicotine for a moment, exhaled slowly, and dropped the butt in a puddle.

"Oi! What'd you do that for?"

"You were wasting it. If you're going to smoke, do it properly." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest with an imperious flair. When Greg, with a shake of his head, offered him a cigarette the second time, he took it.

"He _is_ unstable, but that doesn't make him unpredictable. It's clear there is a modicum of intelligence behind his movements, which are clearly planned with an obvious purpose." Sherlock sniffed. "The last murder wasn't the only time he escalated his actions. Think about it. The first hit. He walked straight into the market, demanded the cash from the till, shot the owner dead, and left the same way he came. The fact that he made a second appearance is an escalation in itself, not to mention the fact that he found a hidden way _into_ the cafe before robbing and killing the owner. The third murder was committed after he had found a hidden way into the florist shop, and then planned an _alternate_ hidden exit point. Each of those three murders, and his slow escalation, earned him one thing..."

"An audience." Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.

"Precisely. The clear purpose being drawing attention. A larger audience required a grander show." Sherlock enumerated the list with his fingers. "An upgrade to his weapon. An impossible vanishing act. Alarmingly... _specific_ graffiti." Taking a long, slow drag from his cigarette, Sherlock strode purposely forward until he was standing just shy of the mouth of the alley. Casting his own sweeping gaze up and down the street (there was no question in Greg's mind that Sherlock noticed infinitely more in this one glance than he had in the past two hours), Sherlock nodded toward the bookstore across the street, Greg stepped up directly to his right.

"Two nights ago, the murder in the pagoda," Sherlock turned laser focused eyes briefly to the building directly to his left (with a furrowed brow, Greg watched Sherlock watching a couple of undercover officers step into the pagoda), the exterior wall of which lined one side of the alley,"set the stage for tonight. I don't think the end game was complete devastation of this neighborhood." He turned to face Greg then. "It won't matter if you take him into custody tonight or not. It all comes to a head here. In..."

"Fifty minutes," Greg supplied.

"Fifty minutes." Sherlock nodded and took one last pull from his cigarette.

"What does that mean?" Greg glanced at his watch once more, and lit another cigarette. Sherlock passed on the offer of another.

"Look at the setup. He _is_ going to enter through the hidden tunnel that connects the dry cellars of those three buildings." Sherlock pointed first at the bookstore, then right to Iain McFadden's pub, and lastly the pizzeria just beyond the pub. "He'll use the tunnel for his entrance tonight, out of necessity, but then he'll also already know he won't be able to use it as his exit, nor at all again after tonight. The tunnel will be too heavily surveilled. And without causing significant property damage, there are no other _hidden_ entrances or exits from those buildings. I searched them all thoroughly. He, or rather, the one dictating his actions, as I believe you were correct in your conclusion, will have done the same research I've done."

"First, that's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me, and I'll leave it go at that." Greg smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth ticked slightly up. "But, when did you investigate the neighborhood? I was here most of the day yesterday, and all day today, and I never saw you. Not once."

With a scoff Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was a burst of chatter across the street and both men watched in silence as a small group of five women, all of diverse ages and varying levels of inebriation surged from the bookstore. They laughed and urged each other on as they made their way next door to the pub.

The two outsiders shared a bewildered look and Greg shrugged his shoulders. "Book club."

" _Book_ club? What sort of book club is _that?_ " Perplexed, Sherlock frowned.

"Eh. The kind my ex use to like. Everyone pretends that they read the chosen hot title, I think Sally said these ladies are reading some romance novel with vampires, or zombies, or some such rot." Greg scrunched his face in disgust as he peered through the bookstore window and caught a glance of Sally, a half glass of wine in one hand while she massaged her forehead with the other. Even Greg could tell she was struggling to stay engaged in conversation with the aged hippie who had literally talked her into a corner. "They come and they natter on about significant others, the neighbor's dirty laundry, celebrity nonsense... hydrangeas. They eat these little... fancy... sandwiches, or expensive cheese, and drink wine. A _lot_ of wine."

"Hydrangeas?" One eyebrow cocked, Sherlock dragged his gaze from the rather enjoyable sight of Sally Donovan suffering and turned it to Greg.

"I never said it made sense." Greg checked his watch, shrugged, and lit the last cigarette. "Forty-six minutes. As far as I can tell, very little discussion of literature ever happens."

"Ah." Sherlock breathed in deeply as he and Greg both looked up and down the street for any more movement. No one else had left the bookstore, but of the dozen or so people still inside, Sherlock recognized six undercover officers, including Donovan, the owner and her partner. The owner of the shop actually owned the whole building. Her partner kept track of the finances, and the two women lived together in the flat above the shop. It was all very domestic and... unremarkable.

And about to be violated by a thief on a killing spree with a one hundred percent success rate.

"None of the other owners were women." Having stated the obvious, Greg glanced at Sherlock and awaited reproach. Sherlock merely hummed in agreement and turned his eyes back across the street. "Will that deter the killer, you think?"

"No. Though I do not believe his attempt will be successful tonight. Nor will it be heartfelt."

"All right, I'll bite." Greg crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. "Gimme."

"Aside from the fact that Donovan looks positively murderous at the moment, and would like nothing more than to inflict bodily harm on someone... I'm here." Sherlock did not divert his gaze from the bookstore, eyes darting to take in every detail.

Greg did nothing to conceal his laugh. "Come off it. That's a bit presumptuous, even for you."

"I fail to see the humor." Sherlock sighed. "It was his, or rather, his employer's, obvious intention to draw me here. That fact has been made blatantly obvious." Sherlock nodded in the direction of the bookstore; both he and Greg stared at the bright yellow graffiti. **BRING ME JOHN WATSON** screamed back at them from the front of the bookstore. "We both saw them scrub the graffiti away yesterday. And yet it has returned, somehow unnoticed, despite the added police presence. There is nothing presumptuous in recognizing the fact that the killer's goal was to draw me here."

Greg flicked away his cigarette butt and closed his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"You asked when I investigated the neighborhood. Right after you left Baker Street yesterday morning." Brow furrowed, Sherlock looked up at the sky. Satisfied that the rain had ceased, he pulled back his hood and shivered at the sudden exposure to the cold and wind.

"Good god, that was 5:00 AM! Have you been home since?" Greg clamped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and turned him so that they were facing one another, fully taking in for the first time the light scattering of stubble (enviably, it was barely noticeable, but there all the same), the deep purple bags under his eyes, and the way his face creased across his brow and around his mouth in exhaustion. "Damn it, Sherlock. Of course you haven't gone home. What the _hell_ have you been doing?"

"I..." Sherlock faltered, taken aback by Greg's distressed tone. "I found the tunnels." He moved to turn back to face the bookstore, but Greg added a hand to Sherlock's other shoulder and held him fast.

" _Sherlock._ "

"Greg, I had to. I had to come here... I couldn't..." Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed.

"You didn't _use_ did you? Please," Greg gripped his shoulders more tightly, "tell me you didn't use. Sherlock..."

"No! I did _not_ use. Not that it would be any of your business if I had," Sherlock snapped in response and ran a hand through his unkempt, hood mussed, rain soaked hair. _This is Greg. He'll understand. He understands. Tell him._ He released a shuddering breath and stared down at the puddle they were standing in, unwilling... _unable_... to meet Greg's gaze.

"I was looking for John."

Greg's release of breath sounded as if he'd been punched in the gut. His face reflected the same. "Sherlock. What..." Barely more than a whisper, his voice cracked.

"Did you..." Breathing rapidly, Sherlock's pace was alarmingly manic. Greg's hands were still on his shoulders, and Sherlock reached up and grasped his forearms in an attempt to ground himself. "Did you know? There are parts of this neighborhood where the streets are designated for pedestrians only? And they're paved with cobblestones. Cobblestones, Greg. It's all very provincial. And the homes. They're all neat little white and brick houses with tidy little gardens and stone walls with brightly colored fences. And people stand by their brightly colored fences and talk to each other. They greet the postman. And they offer strangers a cuppa. And when they... When they find out that you're the poor sod who use to be the flatmate of the illustrious John Watson, they try to hug you, and invite you into their pretty little houses stuffed full of kitsch and memories so they can tell you all about the man you thought you already knew. But you didn't. Not really. Because he was too good, and you mistreated him and took him for granted, and now he's gone. And he doesn't deserve any of that, because he deserves to live in a smart little white house with a pretty wife and babies and a cat, no a dog, _fine_ , both, and a well-kept garden, because John's garden would be the most well-kept garden, and a stone wall with a blue fence. And he'd walk to his clinic. And coach a children's football team. And watch matches at the pub with people who _actually_ know him, and care about him. _Adore_ him. That's the word you used, isn't it? And... and..."

"Sherlock. _Sherlock_ stop." With a quick shake and a commanding tone, Greg managed to halt Sherlock's frenzied tirade. "Sherlock, what is this? Where is this coming from?"

Sherlock had been presented too much data, had too little sleep (none), and it had been over forty-eight hours since he'd had more than tea or nicotine. His mind wouldn't slow down. Wouldn't stop. Couldn't rest. He'd torn through the self-imposed barricades on the space he'd dedicated to John in the mind palace, and left the rooms in shambles as he frantically searched for previously stored knowledge to correspond with the new stories and memories he'd learned. There hadn't been much overlap. Not nearly enough parallel existed between the new secondhand accounts and what he'd been bestowed the honour of acquiring in person. With frenetic obsession he'd attempted to catalogue and file away the newly learned information.

"John never should have been at Bart's that day." _And who's to blame for that?_ A voice that sounded remarkably like Mycroft taunted from the back of his mind. Closing his eyes tight, Sherlock released a shuddering breath.

"Neither one of you had any way of knowing Moriarty was up to something that day, yeah?" Greg shook him gently. "Sherlock?"

Choking back a sob, Sherlock swayed. "...did..." A mumbled, barely audible response.

"No." Short. Disbelieving. _Angry._ Shaking his head in denial, Greg repeated himself with force. " _No._ Sherlock..."

"I didn't know... Not about the bombs. But there was," finally lifting his head, a tear tracked down Sherlock's cheek as his eyes met Greg's, "a plan. John was supposed to be well away. It was meant to be me. _I_ was suppose to..."

"Damn it, Sherlock." Greg pulled his hands from Sherlock's shoulders and moved to take a step back. Sherlock tightened his grip on Greg's forearms. " _Damn it._ Damn these bloody games. What the _hell_ were you thinking?" That Greg hadn't screamed in his face, or worse, was a testament to the control the man was demonstrating at the moment. More than a few undercover officers stepped out of the shadows to peer at the confrontation in the alley.

With a quick shake of his head, Greg broke away from Sherlock's grip, leaving the younger man standing bereft and broken, just long enough to signal _all clear_ , sending a dozen people scurrying back into their hiding spots as they re-holstered their weapons. He checked his watch and cleared his throat. "Thirty minutes." Stepping directly back into Sherlock's personal space and breathing hard, Greg searched his face for any trace of subterfuge or deceit.

"Right. You hate repetition, and there just _isn't_ enough time, so listen to me good Sherlock. If John suspected that something was up, and you know he did - no one ever gave him enough credit - there is no way in hell he wasn't going to follow you into that hospital. And as far as he was concerned, that's exactly where he belonged. I am sure of it. He made his choice. No more of this _he was too good,_ or _he deserved better_ rubbish..."

"He belonged _here,_ " Sherlock sniffed and made an abortive gesture toward the street, "with people who actually _could_ give him the credit he was due."

" _Stop._ He didn't come here after the army, did he? If he belonged here, why didn't he come back? He found you instead." Greg paused, and his features softened. "I bet not one of these pretty, kitschy little houses has livers, kidneys, or even a single thumb in their refrigerators. John would've hated that."

Sherlock snorted a startled sort of desperate laugh. "Wha... No... I'm not in crisis. Stop trying to use diversionary tactics on me." He shook his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "John hated the body parts."

"He always made a fuss about them, but I think he secretly loved it. He _was_ a doctor after all." Greg winked and took a calming breath. "I always imagined him sitting at the kitchen table, diagnosing kidney lesions and brain decomposition, while you were off doing god knows what, content to let you bluster on, just as long as he had a place to belong. And he did. At Baker Street. With you. Everyone says he was good for you, but you were good for him too, Sherlock."

"Greg..." Sherlock froze mid-thought. He glanced quickly at McFadden's pub and then back to Greg. " _You._ " He grabbed Greg in an awkward embrace. "You're brilliant." Shoving Greg quickly back again, he checked the time. "I have twenty-two minutes. _More_ than sufficient." Sherlock started to sprint out from the alley, but Greg managed to catch his arm.

Stunned, Greg blinked and frowned. "Wait... What? Where are you going? You can't leave _now._ "

"John didn't come back here after the army. _Why_ didn't John come back here?" The distress of seconds before completely melted away, replaced by intensity typically reserved for the most challenging cases. "I need to talk to Iain McFadden." Pulling his arm away from Greg, Sherlock jogged across the street.

"Twenty minutes, Sherlock! Are you really going to miss this?" Greg called after him. Sherlock only raised his hand in a dismissive wave as he ducked into the pub. Exhaling deeply, Greg caught Sally's eye as she watched from the window of the bookstore. Greg shrugged and shook his head. Sally cocked an eyebrow and mouthed the word _freak_ in response.

The door leading into McFadden's was solid wood, heavy with brass fixtures and chipped green paint, and squealed cheerfully every time it was opened. It was _absolutely_ ridiculous that a squeaky door should sound cheerful, but to Sherlock's astonishment, it truly did. And it matched the surprisingly jovial tone of the patrons within the pub. At least, they _were_ jovial until, with hushed whispers and more than a few elbows to ribs, the place grew silent as people began to realize _who_ had entered the establishment.

Sherlock scanned the faces of the patrons, many he recognized from his two days of exploring the neighborhood. A few faces stood out from the photograph Greg had showed him of John. He cleared his throat and nodded once, then turned quickly to hang his raincoat on one of the pegs by the door. The room remained still with the exception of the jukebox droning some tune Sherlock didn't recognize in the corner.

The double doors from the kitchen in the back were flung open, and a rush of warm, humid air tinged with the scent of fried grease swirled in around the boisterous man carrying a tray. "Ah, it's about time! Been hearing 'bout ya for so long, and now you've been traipsing all over my neighborhood. I was beginnin' to think you were avoiding me." He grabbed a basket off the tray, and then passed the tray off to a waitress. Motioning to a stool, the man placed the basket, which appeared to contain fish and chips, on the bar. "Sit."

With none of his usual grace, Sherlock half stumbled obediently onto the stool and gawked down at the food in front of him. "I... Uhm..." Sherlock swallowed and looked the man up and down. _Mid seventies. As tall as Sherlock. Full head of white hair - had once been auburn, as indicated by the stray red hairs in the man's neat beard. Broad, strong build. Kind, welcoming face. Clothing... Hmm. Dressed exactly as John always did._ Sherlock's mouth quirked up into a tiny smile. "Mister McFadden?"

Iain McFadden's laugh was the most delightful, thunderous laugh Sherlock had ever heard. And contagious. The awkward silence of the pub was suddenly broken, and the patrons returned to their lively conversations. "Oi. Deduced that, did ya?" He slid a glass of dark lager across the bar to Sherlock. "Call me Iain, Mister..."

"Sherlock. Just Sherlock." He reached out his hand and Iain shook it heartily.

"Johnny always said you were good. _The best,_ he said." Iain punctuated the statement by slapping the bar top. Sherlock jumped in his seat, then ducked his head to hide the uncharacteristic blush blooming there.

"He always did have questionable taste." Chancing a joke at his late friend's expense, Sherlock took a sip of the lager and almost choked when Iain slapped him on the shoulder with another laugh.

"Too right. Though I see you're putting some of his fashion sense to work tonight." With a nod, Iain indicated the cream colored cable knit jumper Sherlock was wearing.

In an attempt to blend in with the residents, Sherlock had not only forgone the Belstaff, but also his standard tailored wear, in exchange for worn denims and tatty trainers he wore when disguised as one of his homeless network. He'd also decided to wear one of John's jumpers, and had convinced himself it was because it made for a solid disguise, as well as practical. Unassuming and warm. So what if the sleeves were just a bit too short, the shoulder seams a tad too broad, and the scent of an aftershave that was not his own lingered in the fibers? "That obvious?"

"I'd know my Moira's handiwork anywhere." With a wistful smile Iain turned to pour a drink, and then ducked to pull a package from under the bar. "That jumper was the last one she ever made. Too bad she never got to meet you. She would've liked you. I can tell."

Sherlock ducked his head once more at the kind words. He didn't have any right to them. "I... I'm sorry. I..."

"Don't be." Voice gone soft, Iain laid his hand on Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock looked up to meet his gaze. "I'm not. She lived a damn good life." He paused and patted Sherlock's hand. "They _both_ did." Sherlock could only blink and nod in response. "You believe that, lad. Stop beating yourself up. I can see it in your eyes. Doubting yourself is one thing, but don't you ever doubt him. I knew him his whole life. If John Watson was anything, he was honest and he was stubborn. He never did a damn thing he didn't want to do. And he _wanted_ what he had with you... All of it."

Releasing a shuddering breath, Sherlock couldn't help but think he ought to feel some sort of embarrassment over his timidity. He _ought_ to have been outraged that his transport was responding to his obviously weak sentimental side. But what he actually felt was too overwhelming to put into words. John had wanted their life. The mess. The chaos. The frustration, anger, and fear. The exhaustion. The inappropriately morbid humor. The absurd. The quiet boring times. The tea and takeaway. The body parts in the refrigerator. He had wanted it all. And he had wanted it with Sherlock.

"H-he talked... about _me_? With you?" Sherlock pressed the fingers of the hand not covered by Iain's to his lips.

Iain laughed. "Ah, he never shut up about ya, lad."

"He never... I didn't know about you. I would've liked to come here. With him." Sherlock looked down at Iain's large hand covering his, and then up to the man's eyes and allowed himself to smile at the warmth he saw there. _So like John._ He quickly checked the clock on the wall. Six minutes.

Humming in agreement, Iain patted Sherlock's hand once more and slid the package he'd pulled from under the bar across to Sherlock. "Right. I know you're actually here on business, but I think Johnny'd come back and haunt my arse if I forgot to give you this." Brows furrowed and lips pursed, Sherlock picked up the package wrapped in brown butcher paper and entirely too much tape. "He was adamant that if you ever came here without him, you get that package. It was the strangest thing..."

Without waiting for Iain to finish, Sherlock tore the paper away and the paused, eyes wide in confusion. Books. A filthy old composition book and ragged paperback copy of _The Divine Comedy._ He flipped through the pages of Dante, noting John had left no inscription on the inside cover as most were wont to do when giving a book as a gift. The copyright of the edition was highlighted in yellow. 1974. _Odd._ Ah, but there. A folded piece of paper marking the first page of _Inferno,_ the first section of the poem. _Very odd. Or was it? Marking the part of the poem about hell in a book one was giving as a gift_ did _seem a bit unusual._ Sherlock shook open the folded piece of paper and his breath caught in his throat as he caught a glimpse of familiar scrawl.

 _Sherlock,_

 _If you're reading this, that means one of two things:_  
 _1\. You found the place I go to hide when I need a break from you. Nosy git._  
 _2\. Some big bad got the better of me. If that's the case, I hope it was_  
 _quick and not too awful for you. And not too dull. We wouldn't want that._

 _I'm smart enough to know it's probably the latter. And for that, I am truly,_  
 _sincerely sorry. I know what losing you would do to me. I can only hope_  
 _my friendship has meant a fraction of the same to you. You're the best_  
 _friend I've ever had. You are a_ good _man, Sherlock Holmes. And_  
 _I never stopped believing in you._

 _I know you're probably cross with me that I never introduced you to Iain._  
 _This place is a part of me, and there are things in my past I needed to make_  
 _restitution for. I wanted to make things right before I brought you here, so_  
 _I could show you this part of my history, and actually be proud of what you_  
 _would see. Iain knows my past as well as I know it myself. You have my_  
 _permission to ask all. And I've included a journal I kept for a few years when_  
 _was young. Everything's there. Please don't hate me._

 _I don't know what else to say, Sherlock, besides thank you. And that hardly_  
 _seems adequate. These two years (only two years? I feel as though I've_  
 _known you forever!) have been the best of my life. I have loved every moment._  
 _And since I'm gone, and I don't have to look you in the eye, I guess it's safe to_  
 _say, I do love you, you know? Right. Okay._

 _-John_

 _P.S.- I know Iain gave you food. It's what he does. You like it. It's the same_  
 _fish and chips I brought home every time you were in a mood. Heavy on_  
 _on the salt, no vinegar. It'll be the same, anytime you want it. I know you._  
 _You probably haven't had anything for days, and are about to pass out, so just_  
 _eat the damn food. Please._

"Idiot." Sherlock whispered as he blinked back the tears that threatened. He turned the page over, and on the back John had written a list of some sort. "Beautiful Day, 038B. A Day In The Life, 007E. Dream On, 020N. Iain, does this list mean anything to you?" Sherlock held the paper up so Iain could inspect the back.

"See, I knew something strange was going on when Johnny came in here. He rushed in that day, barely said hello, and headed straight for the jukebox. Those are all song titles, and their selection numbers." Iain frowned, and shrugged. "He spent a few minutes working on that, wrapped it all up, made me swear I would give that to you and no one else, and then rushed back out. That was... It was the last time..." Iain carded his hand through his hair and turned his face away from Sherlock.

"When? _When_ did he give this to you?" Sherlock stood and placed both hands on the bar. "Iain, I need to know, when did John give you these things?" Heart pounding and mind racing, Sherlock noted the time. It was 9:37, two minutes past the time of the previous murders, but Sherlock had heard no gun shots, no commotion from next door. He was content to stay where he was until he got the answers he needed.

"It was _that_ day. The day of the..." Pounding the top of the bar with his fist, Iain turned and poured himself a whiskey. "Does all that _mean_ something?"

 _That_ day? The day John was killed? That meant something. It _had_ to mean something. But when had John had time to come here? Once he had met with Sherlock in the lab at Bart's they hadn't separated. Not until John left when he got the call about Mrs. Hudson. But that meant...

It was a mad notion, verging entirely on the fantastic, that it seemed as if Sherlock's world shattered in that moment. He would one day remember thinking he'd spent entirely too much time with John and his hopeless romanticism. But that sound, that explosive pop and the audible sound of something being fractured, in those first few seconds, did not register in his already taxed mind as anything other than an overactive imagination. The instinct to take cover did not manifest until Iain dropped his tumbler, which shattered as it hit the edge of the bar, and coughed something that sounded very much like, "Oh."

"Holmes?" Sally Donovan stepped through the gaping hole where the large glass window had once been, gun drawn and eyes wide. Sherlock realized then that people all around him were screaming. He stood from his crouched position and clambered over the bar.

"Sally, get the medics over here now!" With a roar of heartbroken frustration, Sherlock pulled Iain from his unnatural slump against the bar to lay him out flat on the floor. There was so much blood. Sherlock was kneeling in it. Iain's grey jumper was stained crimson. Sherlock's hands... _Neck wound. Clean. Through and through. Professional. From a high angle. The victim_ (because that's what he was now. Not Iain. Victim.) _would have had no chance of survival. This was not the work of their murderer. His superior, perhaps. A trained sniper. But where the hell were the snipers Mycroft had promised?_ He wiped his hands on his already blood soaked denims and noticed that John's jumper was stained with it too. There was no reason to conceal the trembling of his hand now as he reached out to close Iain's eyes.

When the medics rushed in Sherlock stumbled from behind the bar and out through the broken window to the damp wet night.

"Holmes... Bloody hell..." Sally gasped as she stopped short a few paces ahead of him.

"It's fine. I'm fine. Not mine." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and tried to focus on the knot of people surrounding the front of the bookstore. "What..."

"It's our guy. The murder. He's... Damn it, Holmes. He's asking for you. Out of his mind. I'm sorry." Holstering her gun, Sally closed the distance between the two of them, and took Sherlock by the elbow. "You okay? If you can't do this, I'd like nothing more than to put this monster down myself."

"No, I think I'd relish nothing more." With a snarl, Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd of undercover officers that had surrounded the suspect. "Oh, for god's sake, how does he still have a weapon?"

"Had it hidden under his coat. He dropped the murder weapon when he realized he wasn't getting anywhere near the owner, and made a run for it. He only got this far, but he's been waving that gun around, it's a semiautomatic just like the other one, and demanding to talk to you." Sally explained as she reached for her gun once more.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes!" The young man shouted, the tone of his voice just slightly hysterical. "So nice of you to finally join us!"

"So sorry to inconvenience you. As you can see, I was dealing with a mess your partner made." Steeling himself, Sherlock stepped in front of the man, palms up to reveal as much of the blood stains as possible, and leveled his laser focus gaze on him. _Early twenties, possibly a few years older. Age concealed by military style fatigue face paint. That was new._ Sherlock glanced at Greg who nodded once in understanding. _Sloppy appearance, trying to look like someone who could have been living rough. Freshly laundered clothing. Clean fingernails. A bit heavy on the gaudy jewelry and cologne._

"Partner?" The man's laugh was nasal and terrified. "Could it be? The great Sherlock Holmes is mistaken? I don't work with a partner. This is _all_ me!" Gesturing to the four other businesses he'd robbed, the man took a cocky step toward Sherlock and waved his gun. "The name is Sy. Maybe you've heard of me."

"Nope." Popping the _p_ for effect, Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. "Sy." He over-enunciated the name just to irritate the younger man. "It would appear, then, if you're not working with a partner, _someone_ has taken an interest in your territory." Sherlock jerked his head to the right and Sy looked over just as the medics were wheeling the sheet draped gurney to the ambulance. "Or, perhaps the person you're working _for_ is through with you, and has moved on to bigger and better things."

"No!" Sy screamed. "No, I'm part of the big picture, Holmes. You have no idea! There is a storm coming, and when it does, everything and everyone around you is going to fall. And you won't even know what's happening until it's too late..."

"Oh, bravo." Clapping his hands mockingly slow, Sherlock taunted Sy. "Lovely speech. Did that come prepared for you in the minion handbook, or did you think it up all on your own? Which one of Moriarty's lap dogs do you report to? You do realize he's dead."

"Moriarty?" With a scoff, Sy leveled his gun at Sherlock. "Oh, you're going to _long_ for the days of Moriarty." He took a single step forward, and with a manic glint in his eyes flipped off the safety.

Sherlock felt the heat of the sniper bullet pass over his right shoulder and exhaled sharply as he watched the impact knock Sy off his feet. Blood spread out across his upper chest. An impossible shot. On weak legs Sherlock turned scanning the tops of the buildings. There was nothing. Then Greg was at his side, arm around his shoulder, helping him stand. "Greg..." Sherlock buried his face in his hands and leaned against his friend, trying to get his bearings when an impossible voice cried out his name. Sherlock looked once more to the rooftops, but Greg glanced over at Sy.

"The storm _is_ coming." Sy manged to rasp out as he raised his gun. Greg threw Sherlock to the ground just as Sy put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Greg blanched, then wrapped his arms hard around Sherlock's upper arms and torso. "Sherlock. Sherlock, you're okay. It's over." With Sally's help he managed to haul Sherlock up to his feet.

"That was John. It was John. Did you hear him? John is here." Sherlock stared, unblinking at Greg. "That shot. Impossible shot. But John could do it. It was... I have to find him."

"Someone was a very good shot. And I heard someone shout. But Sherlock, John is... He's not here. He's gone, Sherlock. You're under stress, and exhausted. I think you're going into shock. You're not..."

"Get off me!" Shoving Greg and Sally away, Sherlock lurched toward the twenty-four hour laundry across the street. That rooftop had the best vantage point. Correct trajectory height. _John._

Sherlock took two more steps before he once again felt Greg throw himself over his body and they both crashed the ground. The night sky was ablaze and the explosion rocked the street under them.

"What the _bloody hell_ is going on here?" Greg shouted as shoved himself up off the ground. " _Damn_ it!" he screamed and then didn't try to stop the sobs the rose from his chest. Sherlock managed to sit up enough to look in the direction of the fire.

John's clinic.

Sherlock _had_ been wrong. Apparently the goal had been complete devastation. "Greg..." Sherlock managed a hoarse whisper.

"In a minute, Sherlock." Struggling to regain his composure, Greg was shouting orders into his mobile.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Two men stepped out of the shadows of the alley where Greg and Sherlock had been standing less than an hour ago. Sherlock pushed himself up to stand next to Greg.

"Oh, what now?" Greg scrubbed his hand over his face.

"We have a report for you, sir. Mr. Holmes instructed us to find you." One of the men responded.

"You Mycroft's guys?" Greg narrowed his eyes at them, and Sherlock hummed in response.

"We are sir. We're to report that the man who shot and killed Iain McFadden was one Colonel Sebastian Moran. The threat has been neutralized, and home base has dispatched a team to collect Moran's body." The man who had done all the talking, Lieutenant Hall, if the patches on his uniform were to be believed, flicked away the cigarette butt between his fingers.

Sherlock inhaled a sharp breath, but remained silent. "That it?" Greg asked, warily eyeing the two men, "or do you care to share who took that impossible shot at our murder suspect?"

The two men glanced at each other, and the second man, Captain Rodgers, finally spoke up. "We have no involvement with the matters of the Met. That's your concern, sir." He nodded and the two men turned away and disappeared into the shadows once more.

"Moran." Sherlock finally released the breath he was holding. "Why was _he_ here? If Sy isn't working for one of Moriarty's men, what interest could Moran have possibly had with this whole affair?" Snatching Lieutenant Hall's cigarette butt from the pavement, Sherlock held his hand out toward Greg. Greg stared back, confounded. "Evidence bag," Sherlock huffed impatiently.

" _What?_ What are you on about?" Greg dug in his pockets but came back empty handed.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock leapt into deduction mode. "Those two men. They aren't Mycroft's standard issue goons. His usual snipers wear a very plain, very nondescript black flight suit. No patches or identification at all. _Those_ men were very clearly wearing a military style, albeit all black, uniform, all the way down to their combat boots. Their ranks and names were displayed. Their uniforms also bore a very unique patch, one that I do not recognize. Lieutenant Hall, whose DNA I now possess, had a patch depicting a hooded Grim Reaper, though instead of bearing a scythe, he was holding a rifle. Captain Rodgers, the second man, clearly an American of southern descent based on his accent, wore a patch depicting the same hooded Grim Reaper, but instead of the rifle, he held the medical Rod of Asclepius. Quite an interesting juxtaposition, really. Hall is a sniper, Rodgers a medic. Now, the fact that Mycroft would send a military unit to apprehend Moran, rather than his usual sniper team is... _significant._ "

"And, Moran is... who?" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Moriarty's second in command." Sherlock sighed in disdain. "He was on my _to eliminate_ list. I was rather looking forward to crossing that one off. Bloody Mycroft."

"Right. Okay. I..." Greg shook his head, and his shoulders slumped. "Sherlock, I'm done. I can't take any more tonight. The emergency crews are taking over the fire. I think..."

"I..." Sherlock let his face settle into a look of resignation and he glanced at the cigarette butt in his hand. "Let me collect my things from the pub, and then we can go." He returned a moment later, wearing the ridiculous raincoat, the cigarette butt wrapped in a napkin, and John's books tucked under his arm.

"Sherlock," Greg laid his hand on Sherlock's arm. "Earlier, you said you came here looking for John. Did you... Were you serious? Did you really think he might have come back here?"

Studying Greg's face, the sorrow etched in the lines around his mouth, the dust and blood smudge on his cheek, Sherlock saw a man, his friend, who had been mourning just as he had. "I knew better than to hope. But..." He trailed off with a shrug.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, me too. I was ashamed to admit it, but it was there. That hope." Greg led the way to his car, but stopped to shake his head in disbelief at the clinic. "It kinda feels like we lost him all over again tonight, you know? In all this mess." He sniffed and blinked back a few tears, then turned abruptly to unlock the car.

Sherlock took another look across the rooftops and hummed in acknowledgement, but remained silent as he slid into the car.


	6. Breach: Preemptive

*****Author's Note*****

 _This chapter is a flashback to the meeting that set "Dante" into motion. You may recognize the initial construct, as I relied on the meeting that takes place between John and Mycroft before John meets Sherlock at Bart's in TRF. This chapter is also the first in a three chapter arc that will focus largely on John's POV, and most of the non-flashback action will run concurrently with the action in the two previous chapters, "Rend: A Wound Reopened" and "Rend: Bleeding Out."_

* * *

 **DIOGENES CLUB**

"So this," tone exuding a dangerous calm, John flipped through the pages of the gossip rag. It was all a show, a put on for his audience, the British Government, who would have certainly noticed the white knuckled, tremulous grip with which he held the sheets, betraying his true emotions. He had no need to actually read the fabrications and distortions printed there, in black and white bold print with the sensational full color photos, intended to vilify and discredit Sherlock; he'd already read it. All of it. Practically memorized it. He had bloody well been present for the most recent accounts. "This is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it? 'Watch his back, 'cause I've made a mistake.'"

"I don't expect you to understand, Doctor Watson." With narrowed eyes and fingertips pressed together menacingly in front of him, Mycroft leaned slightly forward, just enough to establish his dominance in the matter.

"Try me." The corner of John's mouth ticked up almost imperceptibly, and he slapped the crumpled newspaper down on the arm of the chair. The two sat in silence, Mycroft's icy glare ineffective against John's relentless determination.

"People such as James Moriarty, individuals with potential, we watch them. We pick them out of the mindless masses, and we learn about them. We know... _everything_. Moriarty was given the opportunity to choose a side. As we all were." Smoothing the front of his waistcoat, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, crossed his right leg over his left, and assumed an imperious expression as he let the full meaning of his statement penetrate.

Mycroft relished, truly savored, the moment recognition dawned. Brows furrowed, John broke eye contact, and blinking rapidly, in what Mycroft could only classify as cognizant horror, he drew a shuddering breath. "S-so... So what? You abducted him too? Did you interrogate him? Offer to pay him? Threaten him? Did... Did you torture him to try to turn him? This is clearly no longer about some damn computer code." Balling his hands into tight fists in his lap, John turned his face back, eyes dark with something formidable, inching toward treacherous. He quirked his mouth into the tight lipped, perilous, almost smile; a clear challenge.

Humming his acknowledgement, Mycroft nodded once. "Very good, Doctor. These things are always easier when both parties exercise restraint. And that you display a modicum of intelligence in the matter only proves what I've recognized all along..."

"Moriarty," John growled. "We're talking about Moriarty. About the fact that you sold your _brother_ to the devil, and for what? So he'd pick your team? What sort of demented games are you playing here, Mycroft?"

"A gross oversimplification." Mycroft tsk'd.

"You fed him Sherlock's life story. Allowed him to publish this..." John snatched up the newspaper and tossed it at Mycroft's feet, the pages scattering haphazardly. "One big lie - Sherlock's a fraud - and people will swallow it because the rest is true. Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock, and you wanted a pawn for some sadistic human chess match, so you gave him the perfect ammunition. You let him go free, just so he could play villain. And you..." The rage that had been ratcheting up, roiling in the space just beneath his sternum, seized, the weight of it dropping like lead, dense and terrible, to his gut with the onslaught of alarming insight. John couldn't stop his hand from clutching his chest, trying to reach the abrupt hollow ache there. "Oh god. You've lost control of the situation. You had him and you let him go. Bloody hell." Enumerating an impressive catalogue of vulgarities, he took his time regaining his internal center. John stood then, falling naturally to parade rest, released a deep breath and willed his faltering legs to support his weight. "You utter bastard." He pulled his mobile from his pocket and brought up Sherlock's number.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. _John_." John flinched at the lethal inflection placed on his name. "You'll not complete that call. Sherlock must never know of this conversation. There is much more at stake here than either of you realize at this time. Perhaps you'd rather sit."

"I'm fine, ta." Crossing his arms over his chest, John maintained his unwavering stand, still clinging to the mobile in his, unsurprisingly, tremor free hand.

"I must insist..." With a hasty flick of his wrist, Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and smiled a shark-like, disdainful smile. The door behind John opened and closed softly. He distinctly heard a lock being set. A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and guided him efficiently back to the chair he had vacated. With little time to even grunt in protest, John's mobile was forced from his hand, and the armed man in the expensive suit took up post just behind his right shoulder.

"Damn it, Mycroft. What are you about?" Seething, John struggled to reign in his erratic breathing.

"Moriarty's network is very real, very far reaching. What is at stake is the opportunity to shut it down. Destroy it for good. Your comparison to a chess board is apt. Even as we speak, an attack is in motion, and a counter attack is already set." Mycroft drummed the fingers of his right hand on the arm of his chair as he considered John. With just a look to the man in the suit, a sleek black box was retrieved from a shelf and placed on the small table to Mycroft's left. With excruciatingly deliberate movement, Mycroft opened the box to reveal a chess set. He took his time setting up the board. "In chess, as you may know, a sacrifice can be made for tactical or positional gain. Said sacrifice is often a deliberate exchange of a chess piece of higher value for an opponent's piece of lower value." He tipped over the white queen he'd so carefully just placed.

"What have you done?" Shaking his head in denial, John rasped, panic etched on his face.

"It's simple. The board is set. Play has been manipulated so that Moriarty sees only two possible outcomes. With one move he will be set to take three opposing pieces; Martha Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and yourself..." Mycroft tipped over two white pawns, and picked up a third, allowing it to roll languidly in his palm. He graciously paused his explanation as John recovered himself after a stunned gasp. "Obviously that result is unsatisfactory for my brother. He is therefore prepared to sacrifice himself..."

"What? No! We have to... I have to stop him. I can stop him..." Frantic, John moved to stand. The large hand clamped down on his shoulder and held him in place. "Please, Mycroft. Please. He can't. He can't, I won't let him. Let. Me. Go." He turned and shouted the last bit at the man restraining him.

"Doctor Watson, please calm down. I believe you misunderstand. While the first move will most assuredly result in the aforementioned deaths, Sherlock's sacrifice will merely _appear_ to result in his death. With this sacrifice, he will see to ensuring Moriarty's demise, and will be afforded the freedom to track down and eliminate every part of his network. Though to the outside world, he must be believed to be dead, it is his only guarantee of safety."

"How long?" Wary, John watched as Mycroft continued to toy with the pawn in his hand.

"Months. Possibly years. However long it takes." Mycroft made a noncommittal gesture and John's shoulder was released.

"I'll go with him. We can do more together. Divide the work." John was pleading, very near begging.

"Impossible. Your presence would draw attention. You would both be killed within the first week. In Sherlock's mind this is his only option, this fictitious death and self-imposed exile, as he is unwilling to see you, and to a lesser degree the others, perish in earnest. He put no effort into making the decision. You should be honored. He esteems you very highly." Mycroft's smug grin failed to mask the fact that he had not yet divulged all.

John pressed a fist to his mouth in order to stifle the sob that threatened. He inhaled deeply and scrutinized Mycroft. "You... you said Moriarty only saw two possible moves. Sherlock... He believes him. But you..." John narrowed his eyes and pointed at Mycroft. "I've seen you spar with Sherlock often enough to recognize you've got another play in mind..."

"There is another move. A preemptive strike, if you will." Mycroft stood and buttoned his suit coat. He avoided making eye contact with John. "What is it that _you_ would be willing to sacrifice in order to save my brother, Doctor Watson?"

Glancing behind him at the guard, John very cautiously stood as well, his hands clenched at his sides. "What do you have in mind?"

"A misdirect. Both Moriarty and Sherlock proceed according to the original plan. Then you strike. You will sacrifice yourself in Sherlock's place, though once again this will be an act. The entire world, Sherlock included, will believe you to have died. But in so doing, we will have all the pieces in place to eliminate Moriarty, protect Sherlock, DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock will be free to pursue Moriarty's network, and you will be placed in a position to aid in that pursuit using other avenues." Mycroft flashed a devious grin at John as he reset the board, with the exception of the one pawn still in his hand.

"But, Sherlock..."

"Cannot know. This only works if he remains unaware of your survival."

"You've already made the arrangements, haven't you?" John scrubbed his hand over his face.

"Preparations are currently under way. If you're amenable, we can move to a more secure locale, where you will be briefed..."

"Damn it. _Damn_ it, Mycroft. You just needed a pawn to take the fall. All this time. I've only just been another pawn for you to trifle with. _Such a fool_." John cleared his throat and attempted to blink away the burning in his eyes, his voice was soft with an air of defeat. "I don't see that I have any other choice in the matter."

"Oh now, Doctor Watson, don't disparage your importance in this advance. This will truly be your finest moment." With an unsettling giddiness, Mycroft placed the pawn on the board and turned to lead the way to another door. He motioned for John to follow. "Imagine, pawn to king four."

John noted the position of the pawn, E4, and the placement seemed heartrendingly significant. "Tha-that's not checkmate. That's not the endgame." Sounding only slightly less hysterical than he actually felt, John glanced at the chess board, grabbed Mycroft by the arm and turned him so that they were facing. "This is... We're _ending_ the games here and now, right? Pawn to king four is an opening move... That's not what you meant to say. You meant to say _checkmate_ , yeah?"

"With your involvement, the game has taken a new trajectory. A pawn that has not previously been in play cannot expect to take the king with its first move." Mycroft glared at the hand on his arm until John relented and released him.

John drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His demeanor settled into one of cautious resignation. When he next spoke it was with the same dangerous calm from before. "You guarantee Moriarty will be eliminated. We're taking the king?"

Mycroft sneered, his tone reticent. "Moriarty _will_ be eliminated." Inhaling deeply, Mycroft straightened his shoulders.

 _Taking the king will be another matter entirely._


End file.
